


Never with the Flow

by cleflink



Series: Drifting under Bridges [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Omegaverse, But it works out okay, Case Fic, Gen, Gen omegaverse, Omega John Watson, Other, Parallel Universes, Pre-Slash, With a little bit of dub-con kissing I guess, no really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 04:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleflink/pseuds/cleflink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard for John to say which was a bigger culture shock: getting shot (again) and falling into an alternate dimension instead of dying, or meeting Sherlock Holmes. Probably Sherlock Holmes, although discovering that he has an entirely new sexual orientation had been quite a turn up as well.</p><p>Now John's got to deal with a mad flatmate, a society that treats him like he'll break if someone looks at him the wrong way, and a new case involving kidnapped omegas being forced into prostitution rings.</p><p>Oh, and he's apparently going into heat. Lovely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never with the Flow

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** gender stereotyping; male lubrication; mentions of non-con mpreg (case related); mentions of non-con prostitution (case related); masturbation, dub-con kissing
> 
>  **Author's Note:** This is a sequel to [No Limited Dimensions](http://archiveofourown.org/works/513399). Knowledge of that story is not necessary to read this one, but it likely wouldn't hurt.
> 
>  **EDIT 12/08/13** : The talented [SyncreticVenture](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SyncreticVenture/pseuds/SyncreticVenture) created hir own version of the logo for New Beginnings Adoption and Consultation Centre. Check it out [here](http://s28.postimg.org/jn3ytph3h/Be_Fruitful_Logo_ntrsp.jpg)!

There were two typical consequences of getting shot: surviving and dying. Unlike most men, John Watson had had cause in his life to experience both.

The entirely atypical consequence of getting shot was waking up completely unharmed in an alternate reality. To his eternal confusion, John had experienced that one as well.

Then he met Sherlock Holmes and things really got interesting.

\---

"The response time for the police is appalling," Sherlock said, wearing an expression that made it look as though he thought that Lestrade and the others were taking their time just to annoy him.

Normally, John would have been tempted to agree with him - Sherlock had been even more intolerable on this case than usual and John wouldn't have been jumping to his aid if _he'd_ been Lestrade - but they'd just caught a murderer, which tended to make the Yard forget about irritating Sherlock in favour of getting the murderer in police custody as soon as possible.

Not that that was soon enough for Sherlock. The man was pacing back and forth at the edge of the road in a flurry of expansive hand gestures and rapid-fire complaints that had been growing steadily more emphatic as the minutes passed. John, who wasn't particularly interested in listening to Sherlock complain, did his level best to ignore him.

A stray curl of wind stroked John's side and he shivered.

There was a pause in the steady rhythm of Sherlock's voice, which suggested that John had missed a cue somewhere.

"That's nice," he settled for, wrapping his arms around himself in an attempt to retain some body heat. He didn't know if it was the whole parallel universe thing or the fact that he'd lived in the sweltering dry furnace of Afghanistan for so long, but he couldn't help but find this London - Other London, he'd taken to calling it - remarkably cold for March.

To be fair, the fact that he'd very recently fallen into the Thames probably had something to do with it.

Sherlock made an impatient noise. "Really, John. You could at least try to pay attention." Sherlock, of course, looked as perfectly put together as always; _he_ hadn't been the one taking a swim, after all.

"Sherlock," John said, in a tone of voice that he found himself using more and more often the longer he knew Sherlock. His teeth were chattering steadily and John forced out his words between them. "I am cold and wet and I want to go home. I'll listen to you natter on later, okay?"

"I do not _natter_ ," Sherlock said, offended, because clearly that was the most important part of what John had just said.

John rolled his eyes, too busy dripping and shivering to get into it with Sherlock right now. "Maybe not, but I'm more interested in getting a cup of tea and some dry clothes than listening to you complain about the Met. I've got no real interest in contracting hypothermia."

Sherlock paused and, wonder of wonders, actually took a moment to look at John. His sharp eyes skipped over John's numb lips, the shivers wracking his shoulders, the ineffectual tuck of his hands into his armpits, and the water dripping from his hair and weighing down his clothes. 

John endured the scrutiny stoically, absently amused by the fact that he could actually see the deducing going on in that mad, brilliant brain. _The genius at work_ , he thought, grinning to himself.

Suddenly, Sherlock's hands went to work on the buttons of his own coat and, before John had quite realized what he was about, Sherlock's coat was draped over John's shoulders. 

John blinked. "Thank you. That's… surprisingly nice of you." The coat was warm and heavy; it wrapped around John like an embrace and John sighed a little in relief when he immediately started feeling a little less like a John-shaped ice lolly.

Sherlock sniffed. "Hardly. Scotland Yard's finest are incompetent enough without you distracting them."

"Dist-" John started indignantly, then paused when he realized that he recognized the particular sort of irritation on Sherlock's face. 

John sighed. "Another one of those omega things?"

"Quite so," Sherlock said, somehow contriving to sound even more put out about it than John did. Which John didn't really think was fair. "A distressed omega, especially an unbonded one, triggers protective instincts in both alphas and betas. Since the response team is likely to be comprised of little else, we'd get nothing done until you'd been dealt with."

John made a face. "Oh, for- I'm not distressed, I'm wet. No one needs to 'deal' with me. I can do it myself."

"Their biology suggests otherwise."

"But not yours, obviously," John said. He waved the overlong sleeves of Sherlock's coat for emphasis and was gratified when Sherlock's expression went even more mulish.

"You're the one who wants to go home," Sherlock said. He looked about five seconds away from crossing his arms over his chest and engaging in a truly epic pout. "I would have thought you'd appreciate the expediency." 

John very carefully didn't smile. "I do. Thank you."

Sherlock dismissed John's gratitude with an elegant shrug and started pacing again. John hugged the coat tighter around him and tried to ignore how good it felt to be wrapped up in Sherlock's familiar scent.

Bloody instincts. 

\---

Three months ago, John had been mugged, shot and left for dead in an alley. Then, as far as he knew, he'd woken up, unharmed, on a bench in Russell Square Gardens. Only, it hadn't been the Russell Square Gardens that John knew. Or the London that John knew. Or the entire bloody planet that John knew. Maybe not even the entire universe that John knew, for that matter.

It wasn't so bad, all things considered. John had seen and read enough science fiction to know that he could have done far worse falling into an alternate dimension. In a lot of ways, the place he'd dubbed Other London wasn't all that different from London-London: taxes still had to be paid, cabbies still showed flagrant disregard for the rules of the road and England still couldn't win a World Cup to save its life. John's own pocket of reality hadn't changed much either: he'd still been discharged from the army after getting invalided out, he still had an empty bank account and an intermittent hand tremor that made it hard to get a job, his sister was still an alcoholic. So yes, there were a lot of similarities.

Which made the one major difference stand out even more than it already did. Which was rather a bloody lot.

Because John Watson's personal life might not have changed much, but finding out that his trip had come with a new gender had been quite the turn up indeed.

Well, not an _entirely_ new gender. John was still very definitely a man, thank God, and the approximately fifty-fifty ratio of men and women on the planet hadn't changed, but John now had to contend with three new gender subsets that were nothing like what he was used to.

About 50% of the population classified as betas. They had the regular plumbing that John expected of men and women, with no additions or retractions. They had no particular scents or pheromones to set them apart from the rest of mankind and their biological impulses were characteristically mild, trending neither towards extreme dominance nor open diffidence.

The next 25% were alphas. Alphas were typically known to be aggressive, territorial and authoritative, although this was as much stereotyping as biology. Alphas had strong instincts that could render them incredibly, violently irrational in the wrong situations. Their scents were sharp, spicy and left absolutely no doubt as to their virility and social dominance.

The last 25% were the omegas. Stereotypically speaking, omegas were meant to be the nurturing type, perfectly capable of taking action but genetically predisposed to prefer peaceable solutions to problems. The biological impulses of all genders encouraged the treatment of omegas as something cherished but fragile. Their scents were sugary and light and encouraged either calmness or rampant territoriality in other people, depending on the situation.

John's sister, Harry, was an alpha, which apparently only served to make her even more likely to get under his skin in ten words or less than she already had been. 

Sherlock, unsurprisingly, was an alpha, although John was sure the man would have been bossy, preemptory and frequently intolerable no matter his orientation. 

John was an omega. Because the universe - or universes, he supposed - were funny that way.

\---

It was another fifteen minutes before the police arrived, by which point Sherlock was practically frothing at the mouth from impatience and John's joints were starting to ache from the chill. He no longer felt like he'd been locked in an industrial freezer though, which was a welcome change.

Lestrade had scarcely climbed out of his car before Sherlock was insulting the lot of them with a truly impressive use of his vocabulary. John fought the urge to sigh; why was the man pathologically incapable of being civil?

"John?" Lestrade said suddenly, cutting straight through Sherlock's diatribe to throw a concerned look over John. "Christ, are you okay? What happened?"

John fought the urge to sigh again, for a very different reason.

"Took an unscheduled swim," he said, keeping his tone deliberately light. "Nothing a change of clothes and a cuppa won't fix."

Obviously unconvinced, Lestrade raked his eyes up and down his body, worry and protectiveness painting bold streaks across his face. John fought the urge to growl. The last thing he wanted or needed was coddling from every alpha that walked past. Especially for something as non-fatal as a dunking in the river.

John's forbidding expression must have been a sight because Lestrade coughed and looked deliberately away.

"Right, yeah, of course. Glad to hear it." Lestrade jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Sherlock. "But next time, let this one do the swimming, hey? The lads would get a right laugh out of it."

It was meant to be funny, but John couldn't quite appreciate the humour properly when he knew that Lestrade was being more honest than he wanted John to think.

Because Lestrade, like everyone else here, automatically assumed that John needed looking after. In their minds, it shouldn't have been John jumping into the Thames - which John quite agreed with actually, but more because nobody should be jumping into the Thames, not because he was less suited to it than Sherlock by virtue of his reproductive organs. By Other London standards, Sherlock was a failure of an alpha because he let John put himself in danger. Which was absolute tosh, in John's opinion, but he'd discovered that even evolution disagreed with him on that score.

So John managed a faint smile. "If Sherlock ever falls in the river I'll make sure to take pictures," he promised. "But hey, at least His Highness staying dry meant that I could take his coat."

John gestured up and down at the ridiculous drape of Sherlock's Belstaff around him; the cuff of the overlong sleeve flopped over his fingers with the motion. It made John feel like a kid playing dress up, but the motion served its purpose: the tension in Lestrade's face visibly eased at the realization that Sherlock hadn't left John to contract hypothermia, at least.

"Now that you've finished fussing over John, don't you have a crime scene to manage, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, in a decidedly bored tone of voice.

"Maybe if you spent more time being helpful and less time going on about everyone's idiocy, I'd be finished sooner," Lestrade shot back, finally turning his attention where it was meant to be.

"It's hardly my fault you hire imbeciles." Sherlock stepped closer, crowding John until he could feel the heat of Sherlock's arm against his side. "We'd like to go home at some point. John needs rest."

Lestrade's eyes darted back to John and John could see his protective instincts rising again. 

"Ignore him," John said, because there was only so much of this he could put up with in one night. He put some iron into his voice to keep Lestrade on track. "We're fine. I'm fine."

"If you say so," Lestrade said after a moment, and John was mollified to see Lestrade's sense of professionalism stepping in to take the lead. "You two stay where I can see you while I get things sorted. And no running off. You got that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignored him utterly. Nothing new there.

Lestrade muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath and went off to tell his men how to do their jobs.

John rolled his eyes. "Subtle," he said to Sherlock, sotto voce. 

Sherlock answered that with a look that managed to be at once haughtily disdainful and smugly self-satisfied. John wondered sometimes if Sherlock practiced making faces in the bathroom mirror or if he was just naturally talented at being a pain in the arse. 

Sherlock's mobile beeped and he pounced on it with the enthusiasm of a hunting cat, abandoning John in favour of pacing a few yards away where he had less chance of being interrupted.

John shook his head and watched everyone bustling around the scene, feeling damp, weary and strangely removed from it all. No one approached him, though John didn't doubt that at least a few of them wanted to. 

He made the members of Scotland Yard uneasy, John knew. Although the Yard had a decent number of omegas on the bankroll, they weren't usually to be found investigating crime scenes and they definitely weren't expected to be chasing after serial killers and thieves and all manner of other unsavory sorts. Though Lestrade's team liked John well enough - well, most of them anyway; Anderson didn't appear to like anybody - and intellectually knew that he was perfectly competent, their instincts got in the way. Which was embarrassing for everybody involved. Mostly John. 

Standing there, with water still dripping from his clothes and his damp hair plastered flat to his head, John decided that the easiest way to deal with this situation was to ignore it. He didn't miss the glances that Lestrade's team were throwing at him, worried and gentle but, thankfully, tempered by the way John was swaddled in Sherlock's coat.

He likewise saw the glances that they all threw Sherlock immediately afterwards. Those looks were heavy with grudging approval and something else that it took John several long minutes to realize was resentment. It about then that John realized that, by giving John his coat, Sherlock had done more than help ward off the chill. 

He'd marked John as his property. In an effective but incredibly juvenile fashion.

John didn't even bother trying to curb his sigh this time. 

"I knew you'd catch up eventually," Sherlock said suddenly, standing again at his side and looking amused.

"Wonderful," John deadpanned. "I always wanted to be relegated to possession."

"Why, John," Sherlock said, with suspect innocence. "And here I thought you'd be pleased to know that you rank higher than the coat. I don't allow just anyone to drip all over it."

And John figured that he had to be a lunatic for the way that made him start giggling, but that was okay because Sherlock joined in with him. They garnered even more sideways looks, but John was fast becoming used to it. And better to be looked at for being inappropriate than for being an omega.

\---

John mainly resented being an omega because it was the cue for the rest of the world to see him as less than the sum of his accomplishments. He was a soldier and a doctor and a man mad enough to hitch his cart to Sherlock Holmes - not the sort of person who needed protecting from anything but his own idiocy. 

It was a biological throwback, John knew, to a time when omegas had depended on their packmates for survival. Though the human race was long past living in caves and howling at the moon these days, some central elements of the gender hierarchy had persisted.

Scent was one of the more obvious ones in day-to-day life, although it was perhaps not as irritating as what John had taken to calling the Voice. The Voice was something distinct to alphas and derived likewise from a pack society where leaders were expected to lead and everyone else was expected to obey. When alphas issued commands to betas or omegas or, if the alpha was determined and forceful enough, other alphas, the Voice gave the listener the instinctive urge to obey.

Not that John surrendered to it, as a rule. John Watson was no one's pushover. But that constant tug towards obedience was immensely unwelcome.

Still, these were only small, day-to day-problems - inescapable but relatively easy to contend with. The other, rather more unpleasant, truth was that omegas were biologically geared towards dependence because they bore the brunt of the human race's need to bear children. Even the men. 

Really, if John had ever considered the hypothetical existence of alternate dimensions and the marginal likelihood of him ending up in one, a uterus was one thing he'd still never have suspected he'd end up with.

\---

Three days after John's minor altercation with the Thames, he was followed to the shops by a remarkably unsubtle black town car. He successfully ignored it for about a quarter of an hour, before reluctantly concluding that it was probably less of a headache just to give in and get it over with.

"If he's going to waste my afternoon, I expect Mycroft to do my shopping for me," John said to Mycroft's assistant as he climbed into the back seat of the car. "I'd like to eat sometime tonight." 

She, of course, ignored him.

Mycroft Holmes was Sherlock's older brother. John had first been kidnapped by Mycroft only days after arriving in Other London. By that time, John had already learned about his new gender and, more importantly, had already met Sherlock. Sherlock had involved them both in a case about a serial killer cabbie during which Sherlock acted like the brilliant, reckless prat he was and John shot the aforementioned cabbie before Sherlock could get his fool self killed. Then, because he was clearly a glutton for punishment, John moved into 221B. 

All of which was perfectly mad, in a wonderful sort of way that John could have been tempted to explain away as a dream or the product of massive trauma to the brain if he'd been unwilling to believe that he actually had traveled to an alternate universe. It had been meeting Mycroft Holmes that had ultimately convinced John otherwise.

Because John's subconscious could never have come up with someone like Mycroft Holmes even if he lived a thousand years.

The car took him to Mycroft's office, which made John wonder just what Mycroft needed him for. Usually, Mycroft's preferred meeting places trended towards abandoned garages and burnt-out warehouses. John thought that whole charade was as much for Mycroft's love of the theatrical as out of a need for secrecy. In that instance, at least, he was very much like his brother.

Mycroft had a cup of tea waiting for him when John walked in. 

"John," he said. He was wearing that thin, not-quite smile that said nothing at all.  
"How good to see you."

"Hullo, Mycroft," John said, settling into a chair and taking a sip of his tea. Just how he liked it. Of course. "It's been a while. I was beginning to think that I wasn't worth kidnapping anymore."

"Borrowing, John," Mycroft said smoothly, as though that was the issue here. "Sherlock would never forgive me if I took you away properly."

John rolled his eyes. "I get the feeling that there's very few things that he would forgive you for in the first place. So? What do you need me for today? Because Sherlock used all the milk for his invisible ink experiments and I want to get to the shops before they close."

"John." Mycroft wove his fingers together and leaned forward to rest his hands against the immaculate surface of his desk. "It has been eleven weeks and three days since you first arrived in this reality."

John had never figured out how Mycroft knew that John wasn't… from here. He wasn't really sure he wanted to know, either.

"I have mastered reading the calendar, yes," John said, because sarcasm was as good a defense against Mycroft as any.

Mycroft arched a deliberate eyebrow. "My brother has clearly been a poor influence on your behaviour. Such a shame. I want to talk to you about the fact that, at some point in the next few weeks, you will most likely go into estrus."

Estrus, in John's opinion, was irrefutable proof that omegas had lost every genetic lottery in human existence. 

Not only was John able to get up the duff - through his _arse_ \- but Mother Nature had decided to help this process along by giving omegas an estrus, or heat, cycle. 

Three times a year, omegas went through heat and were, apparently, overcome with the urge to shag everything that moved in order to improve their chances of conception. It was also the time when omegas were most likely to make a permanent mate-bond with an alpha or beta, if they hadn't done so already. The whole thing sounded more than a little dubious to John.

By all accounts, the sex was great, though. So that was nice.

"I had noticed," John said, a little tightly. "What business is it of yours?" 

"I simply wish to be sure that you are appropriately prepared."

John scowled at him. "I invaded Afghanistan. I'm fairly sure I can handle a heat."

Mycroft made a mild, agreeable sound that was in no way, shape or form an actual agreement. "Nevertheless, your recent arrival mean that this will be your first estrus cycle and I rather doubt that your no-doubt exemplary military service record provides adequate preparation for this particular situation. I am given to understand that the experience is… singular."

Mycroft was a beta. Which, considering that he ruled most of Britain, was probably the most terrifying thing about him.

John sighed. "What do you want, Mycroft? Because I really don't want to talk to you about my sex life."

"Nevertheless, I intend to be certain that there will not be any unintended eventualities that result from your condition."

"Do you…" John blinked, thought that through once more. Mycroft waited with the infinite patience that he appeared to have for everything except Sherlock. "You think that my… my _cycle_ is going to, what? Make me jump Sherlock?"

"Or the reverse," Mycroft said, far calmer than John would have been if he'd been talking to Harry's wife Clara about her and Harry's sex life. "I'm sure you've noticed that people, particularly alphas, react quite predictably to omegas in any state of distress. Omega pheromones become considerably more pronounced during estrus."

"Well what would you suggest, then?" John asked, a little huffily. "It's a bit too late to be trying to put me on suppressants. Going to kidnap me for my own good? Again?"

"Dear me, John, not at all. The Holmes' have a small estate towards Dover," Mycroft said casually, as though every family was part of the landed gentry. For his part, John hadn't been aware that estates came in 'small'. "It is rarely occupied and would be a suitable place for you to reside so that you can pass the next few weeks undisturbed."

John snorted. "Sherlock would go spare if I took you up on that."

Mycroft inclined his head in just the barest fraction of acknowledgement. 

"I have been reading up on this, you know," John said, trying very hard not to sound defensive. "I know how to take precautions."

Granted, the majority of literature on the subject was more of the 'preparing for heat with your mate' and 'a child's first heat' varieties than anything actively useful, but John wasn't about to admit that.

Of course, considering that this was Mycroft, John was certain that he didn't need to.

Sure enough, Mycroft didn't even bother to make his answering 'of course' sound anything close to sincere. "In that case, I shall count myself satisfied that you have the situation in hand. I do trust, however, that you'll get in touch if there's an issue?" It wasn't really a question. "The offer of a safe place to pass your cycle will stand."

John nodded, because he wasn't fool enough to disagree. Not only was it a utter waste of time to think that Mycroft ever left well enough alone but John also honestly didn't know how ready he was going to be for this. Knowing that he had Mycroft and his terrifyingly efficient staff waiting in the wings in case everything went tits-up actually went a ways towards helping John feel more settled about the whole miserable situation.

"Wonderful. My driver will take you back to Baker Street," Mycroft said then, a clear dismissal if John had ever heard one. "You'll find your groceries in the boot. And do tell Sherlock that he should consider M&S chocolate digestives in the future. Sainsbury's own are positively dreadful."

\---

The next day, a box arrived at Baker Street addressed to John. He carted it up to his room, away from Sherlock's nosey presence, and pulled it open with some trepidation. It contained several concise, practical reports on the stages of heat and how best to anticipate them, a sturdy-looking keypad lock that would affix to the inside of John's bedroom door, sanitary towels to catch the natural slick that his body would produce to avoid such pesky needs as lube, birth control pills that John resigned himself to taking in the event of a worst case scenario and, embarrassingly, a wide selection of dildos and plugs to help him 'deal' with the worst of the physical cravings. 

John wasn't sure which part was worse, the fact that he was apparently going to enjoy stuffing himself with plastic pricks or the fact that someone in Mycroft's employ had purchased said plastic pricks for him.

This whole experience was clearly going to be _delightful_.

\---

John would very sincerely have preferred never acknowledging his new physiology, but he was both a doctor and a sensible human being and he knew that ignoring problems would only make it worse when they came back to bite him in the arse later. Possibly literally, in this case.

So he went and had a full physical.

"Well, Dr. Watson," Dr. Sawyer said, as she gestured for John to sit up. "You're about a half stone underweight but, other than that, you're in very good health given your situation."

"Which one?" John asked, deliberately light. "The medical discharge or the fact that it's heat season?"

Dr. Sawyer grinned. "Both. I see from your file that you were on suppressants in the army, correct?"

John nodded. One of the first things he'd done upon concluding that, yes, it looked like he was going to be in Other London for the duration, was get a copy of 'his' medical file. He'd also convinced 'his' friend Mike at Bart's to let him have a full set of x-rays done, which had been an experience and a half. John wouldn't have thought that there was any space in the male body for a uterus but this world apparently lived to defy his expectations.

"Are you on suppressants now?" Dr. Sawyer asked.

John shook his head. "No, I've… I'm not, no."

She made a note in his file. "And you haven't gone through an estrus cycle since your return to England? It's quite normal for the body to take several months to reset itself after prolonged suppressant usage."

"I'm aware," John said, not because he necessarily was but, as a doctor, he doubtless was expected to. "And no, I haven't. Not yet, anyway."

Dr. Sawyer smiled at him kindly. She was really quite pretty. "Well, I can tell you that it's just a matter of time. Your reproductive organs are perfectly healthy and fertile. And you're still well within the age range for healthy pregnancies if you decide that you want children."

"Oh." John found himself looking down, staring at the bare stretch of his legs beneath the hem of the medical gown he was wearing. "Good. That's… good."

"Not the settling down type?" Dr. Sawyer asked, and John could hear the more-than-just-professional curiosity in it. Most omegas were the settling down type, after all; it was simple biology.

John offered her a thin smile. "Haven't found the right one yet, I guess."

"Apparently not." The smile she gave him in return had a hint of speculation in it. The old John, the not-omega John, would have returned it in a heartbeat, but John wasn't sure he needed the complication right now. His life was bloody well complicated enough as it was.

John's mobile chose that moment to beep with an incoming message and John sighed, just a little. He could guess who that was.

The expression on Dr. Sawyer's face smoothed back into professionalism and she stood up with a smile. "I'll leave you to get dressed then."

"Thank you, Doctor," John said, and they exchanged a quick round of pleasantries before Dr. Sawyer took her leave and John got off the exam table to reclaim his clothing. He took a quick glance at his phone. 

_Lestrade wants us. Why aren't you here? - SH_

John rolled his eyes, even though there was no one to see him do it.

 _Went for a physical, remember?_ he sent back. _Coming home now._

_Don't bother. Meet me at the crime scene. - SH_

The next message was an address in the East End and John sighed again as he got dressed. Sometimes he wished that doing what Sherlock wanted wasn't usually the most interesting part of his day.

_On my way._

\---

"Finally," Sherlock said, when John arrived, with a peevishness that made it sound like he'd been waiting for weeks. He hardly even bothered waiting for John to pay the cabbie before he was sweeping off towards the blue and white police tape, bee-lining for Lestrade.

John trailed along quietly in his wake, wearing the carefully bland expression he'd learned standing in the ranks. No one bothered to give him a second glance, which was just how he preferred it.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said as they drew up. His eyes flicked to John and away in a fashion that made John think he would have looked longer if the circumstances had been different. "John."

"Where's the body?" Sherlock demanded, which was about as far as his understanding of 'pleasantries' went. 

Lestrade didn't even bother sighing before gesturing with one hand towards the alleyway. "This way."

The victim was sprawled across the pavement in an untidy splay of limbs that spoke of a sudden drop rather than a careful placement. 

"A couple of kids found him this morning," Lestrade said. "Estimated time of death is between ten and two last night."

Sherlock nodded distractedly, all of his attention on the body in front of them. Though he was no Sherlock, John automatically began observing the scene as well.

The victim was male, somewhere in his early thirties, skinny as a rail and looking as though he'd missed a few meals recently. His hair was dark, overlong and tangled, while his clothes were a mishmash of bits and pieces cobbled together into what John recognized as the standard wardrobe of someone living rough. The cause of death was a knife wound between the fourth and fifth ribs, a killing blow but inexpertly administered; it would have taken him a while to bleed out. His clothes had clearly been rifled through, though what anyone would have wanted to steal from a man like this, John couldn't imagine.

"Homeless," Anderson said from the sidelines, in a tone of voice that just dared Sherlock to contradict him.

As always, Sherlock was more than happy to oblige. "Wrong," he said, crouching down next to the corpse. He pulled out his pocket magnifier to get a closer look at the hands and didn't bother looking up to add, "living rough for the last two, no, three days, but that's all."

Sherlock stood in one sharp, smooth motion. "Why am I here?" he demanded of Lestrade. "Even you and your tiny brains should be more than capable of solving this one." A pause. "Well, except Anderson, obviously, but he's been bringing down the bell curve long enough that you should expect that."

Anderson bristled while Lestrade looked grimmer than John would have expected.

"How do you know he's not homeless?" John found himself asking, both to break the stalemate and because he never got enough of hearing Sherlock's deductions. "He certainly looks it to me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Hardly, John. His hands are soft, not used to the wind or weather, and the grime under his fingernails hasn't embedded itself beneath the cuticles. He has no bed roll and no belongings, both of which are vital for life on the streets."

"They could have been stolen?" Lestrade offered.

"Unlikely. The personal possessions of people with no worldly wealthy tend to be of sentimental value and, thus, are of little value. True, the more practical items could be coveted but it's obvious by his attire that this was not the case. His clothes were clearly chosen to disguise his identity rather than out of need for warmth, which is the first concern of anyone living on the streets, especially considering the winter we've had. Add that to the fact that he's an omega and omegas tend not to last long on the streets without support, and it's obvious that he doesn't belong here."

The dead had no scent, so John wasn't sure how Sherlock could tell the man was an omega without taking off his trousers - and, even then, he wasn't sure how easy it would be to tell the difference between betas and omegas. An alpha's knot would be hard to mistake, it was true, but John definitely hadn't suffered any shrinkage since arriving, so all the differences between betas and omegas ought to be internal.

"Amazing," John said, because it was. And Sherlock's ego might not have needed the boost but the man behind it did, and so John was glad to offer praise where it was due.

Sherlock waved him off. "So I'll ask again, Lestrade: why am I here? Your dead omega clearly isn't so important that there's pressure from your superiors to get this wrapped up and even your pathetic excuses for brains can surely tell that this was a random altercation brought on by impulse rather than planning. Possibly because the deceased was an omega and it attracted the wrong attention, more likely because of a territory conflict with the homeless who already live in this area of the city. Why are you wasting my time?"

Lestrade squared his shoulders and looked Sherlock straight in the eye. "Because this man's alpha went to prison for his murder four months ago."

\---

"His name's Colin Fuller," Lestrade said, while Sherlock mostly ignored him to go over the crime scene again. John could practically feel the excitement bubbling up inside him at this new development. "Thirty two years old, bonded to an alpha by the name of Sheila Fuller. Lived in Tottenham and worked as-"

"An accountant," Sherlock interrupted. "Yes, I know. When did he go missing?"

"End of December. Last seen at a company Christmas do with his wife."

Sherlock made a thoughtful noise. "And why did they arrest her? Clearly the rumours of his death were greatly exaggerated."

Lestrade shrugged. "Wasn't my division, so I can't say for sure. I'll get you the case files. Lot of domestic trouble between them, though, and the alpha had a reputation for being extremely territorial."

"Aren't all alphas?" John couldn't help but ask.

"There are varying degrees," Sherlock said, not looking over. "Aren't all omegas homemakers?"

"Touchy," John said. He glanced at Lestrade. "So Fuller, what? Faked his death? Ran away to get away from his wife? Why not just get the bond dissolved?"

Bond dissolution was something that John had looked up when he realized just how much potential for disaster there was when everyone's instincts took over; forewarned was forearmed, after all, and John had no particular desire to get accidentally life bonded to someone on the merits of a good shag.

"Hmm," Sherlock said, in the tone of voice that meant that John had missed everything, as usual. 

"Alright, genius," John said, surrendering to the inevitable. "Let's have it. What happened to him?"

"Abduction," Sherlock said easily. "Look at the clothes he's wearing under his layers." Sherlock rucked up the grimy shirt with his typical unconcern for the dignity of the dead, to reveal a generic white shirt and the waistband of a pair of equally generic blue trousers that reminded John of hospital scrubs. Though John couldn't see how they automatically screamed 'abducted' they were certainly at odds with the rest of Fuller's ensemble.

"He's obviously been kept in a contained facility that is concerned for the health and cleanliness of its captives, but is considerably closer to a prison than a spa retreat, given the fact that he is nearly a stone underweight and shows no sign of engaging in any kind of physical activity in weeks. The fact that he was known to have been arguing with his alpha was likely a prime factor in his selection since the boneheaded police officers who processed the case would have looked no farther than the convenient domestic violence angle."

"Hey now," Lestrade protested.

"But what for?" John asked. "You said that his hands are soft, so he hasn't been doing hard labour, and I don't see any signs of physical mistreatment."

"Well done, John," Sherlock said and John steeled himself against the flash of pleasure the praise prompted. "Lestrade, I need to see every case the Yard has relating to the disappearances or supposed deaths of omegas in London over the last three years."

"Three years? Why?"

"As a starting range." Sherlock fished out his mobile and started messing about, which did nothing whatsoever to slow down the rapid-fire rhythm of his speech. "Hard to know how long the organization has been active, although it's doubtful that it's much longer than that considering they managed to let this one escape and he's clearly no paragon of stealth or intelligence. They've also failed to install tracking chips in their captives, otherwise this body would no longer be here. Pay particular attention to unbonded omegas and omegas with troubled relationships with their bond-mates."

"Just omegas?" John asked, abruptly conscious of the fact that he was the only omega on the crime scene aside from Fuller's body. "Why?"

Sherlock's answering eye roll nearly knocked both of his eyeballs right out of their sockets. "I'm aware that it's barely used, John, but do try and use your brain. Abducted for neither ransom nor mass labour. What other uses might someone have for omegas, in particular?"

"A prostitution ring?" Lestrade guessed.

"Partially," Sherlock agreed.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "How can it be 'partially' a prostitution ring?"

Sherlock made an impatient sound. "Isn't it obvious? What potentially valuable bi-product is the traditional outcome of sexual intercourse during an omega's heat cycle?"

"Bi-prod… are you talking about _babies_?" John asked, more than a little incredulously. Sherlock might have had the emotional sensitivity of a bag of rocks, but calling children 'by-products' seemed a bit beyond the pale even for him.

Not that Sherlock seemed to be aware of this. "Selling omega heats is a lucrative business," he said, most of his attention still fixed on his mobile, "as heat sex is widely considered superior to both sex between non-omega couples and sex with extra-estrus omegas. Contraceptives mitigate the likelihood of pregnancy without interfering with an omega's hormonal impulses, so there's no particular _need_ to prevent pregnancies, but why spend all that money on contraceptives when you can just let them get pregnant and then sell the offspring? Clever, really."

"Christ." John looked again at Fuller's body. "Poor bastard."

Lestrade frowned. "Hang on. If this organization of yours is doing such a good job, how'd this guy wind up knifed in a back alley?"

"Bad luck," Sherlock said. "He escaped from wherever they were holding him only to get attacked on the street by a homeless alpha junkie with very specific opinions on territory ownership. Good news for us, though," he added, because the tragic irony of Fuller's situation was apparently only interesting on a superficial level, "since it's revealed the existence of a well-established omega abduction, prostitution and progeneration ring. They'll probably start tagging their omegas after this to make it more difficult for them to escape, but that's no matter."

Lestrade looked skeptical. "And just how do you figure that?"

"I despair of you utterly. Because we're going to catch them, Lestrade, what else would we be doing?"

"Right," Lestrade said, somewhere between long-suffering and actively irritated. "And how are we going to find them?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Obvious."

John resisted the urge to sigh. "Well, why don't you explain it to us thick people?"

Sherlock slid his phone back in his pocket. "Follow the paperwork, of course. John," he said, with a beaming smile. "How do you feel about adopting?"

\---

The next morning, John woke up with the bed sheets tangled around his ankles and an unfamiliar heat spreading through his limbs. 

John sighed and slumped back onto the bed. "Brilliant. And so it begins."

Thanks to Mycroft's notes, John knew exactly what he was in for, for all the comfort it brought. From this point, he could look forward to approximately a fortnight of being led around by his prick. Today, John's symptoms were far too mild for him to resort to locking himself in his room and wanking himself silly, but the effects of estrus were cumulative: his symptoms would get progressively worse with each day that passed. Ultimately, he was going to go into 'heat fever' which would render him utterly incapable of thinking about anything other than getting shagged into the floor by the closest alpha or beta.

His scent would start changing too, his body's natural pheromones thickening in tandem with the rising heat inside him. A quick check before he got into the shower made John think that that part hadn't quite kicked in yet, although he didn't know if he'd be able to tell; his pheromones weren't designed to affect _him_ , after all. 

On the whole, though, it really wasn't as bad as John had been fearing. A low grade arousal was trying to make itself known somewhere in the back of his head, but it was an absent thought at best. The army had given him plenty of practice at ignoring the demands of his libido when necessary. This was nothing that John couldn't handle.

His temperature was slightly higher than normal, not enough to be dangerous, but more than enough to make John want to release the top few buttons on his shirt almost as soon as he'd fastened them. His skin felt tender, like the beginning stages of a sunburn, and he was unimpressed to notice that an unflattering flush was sitting high on his cheeks, faint but unmistakable if anyone knew what they were looking for. Still, John fancied that most people wouldn't realize that he was in estrus for another day or two at least.

Sherlock, of course, noticed immediately. 

His reaction was pretty much what John had expected.

\---

Sherlock burst through the door of the flat with the enthusiasm and panache of an actor taking the stage, already talking a mile a minute. "Molly found traces of fertility drugs and lorazepam in Fuller's system, which proves that once again I-" Sherlock stopped. "You're in estrus."

John very deliberately didn't look up from his newspaper. "Well spotted, you."

Sherlock strode over to John's chair, shoved the newspaper down with one hand and raked his eyes over every inch of John. 

John looked back, unamused. "I was reading that."

"Don't care. When did your symptoms start? How high would you rate your current level of arousal? Is there a thermometer in your medkit?"

The last was said over Sherlock's shoulder as he bounded for the stairs and John rubbed a weary hand over his face. "Sherlock," he said, in the firmest voice he could muster. "I am not an experiment. Stay out of my medical supplies."

John had never met another adult who made pouting look so natural. It was something to do with the shape of Sherlock's mouth, he figured. And the fact that he was a giant infant.

"Why? It wasn't certain that you would have an estrus cycle due to your foreign origin-" Christ, he made John sound like an exotic plant "-and we're in an ideal position to measure the effects of heat off an impartial base-line since you have no prior experience. Besides, the tests will be almost entirely non-invasive."

"It's really quite amazing that you think you're being reasonable right now." John shook out the worst of the creases in his newspaper and turned away from Sherlock's petulant expression. "My heat is not a science project. Full stop. Bugger off."

"John-"

"No."

"You're being entirely irrational."

John calmly turned the page. "Wrong again. Would you mind making some tea while you're up or are you too busy throwing a wobbly right now to do both at once?"

Sherlock sniffed, as though the entire concept was beneath him. "You have wretched timing, by the way," he said then.

"Because that's clearly my fault," John said, more amused than put out. "Why?"

"Come now, John, we can hardly claim to be interested in adopting with you looking and smelling-" Sherlock waved a hand at him "-like that."

John's brow wrinkled as he frowned. "I didn't think it was that obvious yet."

"It's not. But not even an idiot like Anderson would believe that you're infertile right now." Sherlock started pacing, four neat steps towards the fireplace, about face, and back the other way; his recent decision to stack every book they owned at oblique angles across the floor meant that there wasn't the space for him to go any further. 

"Remind me again why we're interested in adopting?" John asked, resigning himself to the fact that he wasn't going to finish reading the paper any time soon. He watched Sherlock stride back and forth. "Because I'm not sure this flat is a healthy environment for a child to grow up in."

"Yes, yes, very funny, John. As always, your razor-sharp wit astounds me."

"Oh, leave off. Are you going to tell me or do I have to guess?"

"Isn't it obvious? The easiest way to locate the prostitution ring is to find out what's happening to the offspring."

"The agency that's giving them up for adoption," John realized.

Sherlock nodded. "Just so."

John looked at him suspiciously. "Are we going to spend the entire day walking in and out of adoption agencies?"

"No need," Sherlock said. "I know which one it is."

"How on Earth-"

"Simple," Sherlock said, when John was certain that it was anything but. 

Sherlock grabbed the nearest laptop - John's - and typed something into the search bar, still talking mile a minute. "I factored in the approximate inception date of the ring, accounted for the standard gestation period, compared this date to the reputations of the private adoption agencies in the country, and further narrowed the search based on the services offered by each agency. And here we are." He turned the laptop around to let John see the professional-looking website he'd pulled up. New Beginnings Adoption and Consultation Centre," Sherlock said. "The most elite adoption agency in the United Kingdom. Known particularly for its ability to provide prospective parents with the ideal child within a year of their signing on."

"How does that prove that they're involved in a prostitution ring?" John asked, scrolling through the website. 

"By itself, it doesn't. The picture becomes more damning when we include the fact that 52% of all the children given up for adoption at this agency are anonymously donated."

"I don't think that donated is quite the word you should be looking for." John frowned. "52%, huh? That seems like… a lot."

"Exactly," Sherlock said, more than a little gleefully. "The prostitution ring provides the agency with an opportunity to breed children at the behest of the clients, either by allowing said clients to purchase an omega's entire heat and contribute their own DNA to the process or by choosing an appropriate stud for the procedure. Then the agency puts the birth down as an anonymous drop-off, thus avoiding the need to provide documentation of the child's parentage."

"Wow, okay. Jesus." John thought about that. "So you wanted to pretend to be a couple looking to adopt? How were we supposed to pull that off when we're not married or mated or whatever you call it here?"

Sherlock collapsed abruptly onto the sofa. "You smell enough like me," he said, dismissive in a way that John probably ought to have taken offence at. "Infertility would have been a perfectly serviceable excuse for an incomplete bond."

"Riiight. So, what are we going to do instead?"

Sherlock's answering grin was in no way reassuring.

\---

"Mr. Holmes," Larry Platt, Chief of Public Relations for New Beginnings Adoption and Consultation Centre, said warmly, pumping Sherlock's hand like he never wanted to let go. "New Beginnings is so grateful for your generous donation to our cause."

"So you've said," Sherlock said, with impressive restraint. John had expected him to tear the man a new one ages ago. "At length. Now, if you'll carry on with the tour, I'll be able to see how well my money is going to be spent."

Platt's smile wilted slightly around the edges. "Oh yes, of course. Right this way."

Platt continued down the corridor with Sherlock at his heels and John at Sherlock's heels. John had spent most of their time at New Beginnings alternately walking behind Sherlock -being quiet and getting ignored -, and standing around beside Sherlock - being quiet and getting ignored. The lack of attention wasn't entirely unwelcome; John had spent most of his life being one of those people who faded into the background, and the barely-there prickle of his heat under his skin was making him hyperconscious of the amount of space between him and everyone else in the room. 

"This is the prenatal ward," Platt said, as they approached a large set of double doors. "Gravidae from our affiliated maternity home are moved here in their final trimesters to ensure good conditions for the birth." 

"Gravidae?" John asked.

"Pregnant betas and omegas," Platt clarified, as though it was obvious. It probably was. Platt frowned a little. "I'm sorry, but didn't you say that you were a doc-"

"You see to the births on site?" Sherlock interrupted, with a warning look at John. John resisted the urge to make a face at him. "Why not at a hospital?"

"Protecting the privacy of our gravidae for one," Platt said. "A lot of them don't want to go on record at a hospital. From a business perspective, it also allows New Beginnings to monitor the children from the moment of birth, which makes it easier to profile each child and his or her needs."

 _Bollocks_ , John thought to himself. Nothing in Sherlock's countenance gave away his own skepticism, but if even John could tell the man was lying, Sherlock had definitely picked up on it.

Platt pushed the doors to the ward open and John walked straight into a wall of pheromones that sent the faint warmth under his skin to burning. He faltered, wrapped up in the smell of successful breeding, of anticipation, of fertility. All John could feel was a yearning to be just like them, those unseen betas and omegas who were carrying children inside them.

It was terrifying.

"John?" Sherlock's voice asked, and John realized that he'd slowed, unconsciously trying to put some distance between himself and that feeling. Sherlock's scent was thick in John's nose, tempting in all sorts of frightening ways.

"Sorry," John said, with a weak attempt at a smile. "It's a bit…" He gestured back the way they'd come. "I'm just going to-?"

"Yes, fine. I'll fetch you from the lobby when I'm done," Sherlock said, and John bristled at the indignation of being told what to do. 

He swallowed back his instinctive urge to tell Sherlock where he could stuff it, executed a military-sharp pivot and strode away with his chin held high. 

The 'want baby!' urges faded as quickly as they'd come, and John made his way back to the lobby with open relief. There was a couple speaking with the receptionist when John walked in, so he settled himself quietly on one of the chairs, took one look at the collection of parenting magazines on the table and decided to stare at the walls instead.

Like the rest of the building, the reception area was lavishly decorated in a way that made John very aware that he and his army pension could not have afforded to make an appointment here, let alone adopt. The building was more like a manor house than an office, complete with sweeping staircases and towering windows. The company logo hung on the wall above the staircase like a coat of arms; John let his eyes trace the curl of grape-heavy vines around a stylized Ω, pondering over the ripe, glossy-looking apple in the centre and the bee circling around it.

"They're a symbol of fertility," a voice said, and John turned to see that the receptionist - alpha, he registered absently - had finished with the couple and was now standing a few paces away wearing a charming smile. "The bee and the apple," she added, when John tilted his head, confused. "Pollination and new life and all that. New Beginnings' motto is 'be fruitful' for a reason."

"I see. The pun's a little tragic, isn't it?"

Her grin went slightly impish. "That's what puns are for. Is everything alright?" she asked then. "Where's your alpha?"

"He's not-" John started, before remembering that Sherlock had introduced them that way - _to seem less anomalous, John, do keep up_. "He's in the maternity ward," John said instead. He offered the woman a self-deprecating smile. "I wasn't expecting it to be so… overpowering."

The alpha clucked her tongue sympathetically. "Mr. Platt should have warned you. The maternity ward can take some getting used to. Was your alpha okay? The pheromones can be as hard on them as they are on omegas."

"He's sort of a special case," John said. "Nothing much bothers him."

"Except your heats, right?" she said, with a wink. "A little loss of control does the body good."

Torn between amusement and embarrassment, John managed a smile. "He might not agree with you there. A little too fond of logic."

She waved a hand. "His loss. Can I get you a coffee while you're waiting for him?"

"That," John said. "Sounds like an excellent idea."

He chatted with the alpha - Natalie - for a time, subtly grilling her about the company even though he was sure that Sherlock would already have deduced the lot of it. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, and John couldn't help but shake his head over the fact that Sherlock had clearly decided to carry on with the rest of the tour without him. 

John's coffee was long since gone by the time Sherlock appeared, striding out of the ether with his usual overly dramatic flair. "John!" he called. "Come with me!"

John shot a helpless look at Natalie - and promptly regretted it when her pupils dilated automatically in response - before falling in step behind Sherlock. "What?"

"I need you to distract an idiot," Sherlock said in an undertone, the sharp ring of his shoes on the floor all but drowning him out. 

"And what idiot is this?" John asked gamely.

"Thomas Keegan," Sherlock said, in his rapid-fire 'your tiny little brain is wasting my time' voice. "Chief Adoption Services Liaison. He's a beta who thinks his beta wife was cheating on him with an alpha. He's right, which is more luck than judgment on his part since he's an idiot-"

"You think everyone's an idiot."

"-and, as a result, is unlikely to respond well to questions from an alpha, or a beta, for that matter. As an omega, you're completely non-threatening."

John rolled his eyes. "You do realize that's total bollocks."

"Of course I do," Sherlock said. "That's why it's perfect. The fact that you're in estrus will make things even easier; your scent will be wonderfully distracting."

It just stood to figure that Sherlock would gleefully capitalize on John's heat as a way to manipulate other people. 

"What do you want me to find out?" John asked. 

"Nothing. Just keep him busy. I need a look at his files. Here we are," Sherlock said then, and pushed his way into an office without bothering to knock. "Mr. Keegan," he said, with a wide talking-to-normal-people smile. "This is John."

Keegan stood up behind his desk, offering John a smile and a handshake. "Thomas Keegan," he said. "Nice to meet you."

"And you," John said. The press of his palm against Keegan's made his skin tingle.

Sherlock's phone rang. "Oh, I've got to take this. Awfully sorry," Sherlock said, already heading for the door. "Won't be a moment."

The door swung shut behind him and John was left in Keegan's office, wondering what in the hell to do now.

Keegan raised an eyebrow. "Is he always that… abrupt?"

John smiled. "That's a polite way of putting it. And yes, pretty much. Do you mind if I-" he gestured to one of the chairs.

"Oh, no, go right ahead." Keegan sat as well and laced his hands together on the desk. "So your mate said that you had some questions about our operation, is that right, Mr. Holmes?"

"Doctor," John corrected automatically, on the grounds that it was the easiest thing to correct out of the many things wrong with that sentence. "I- uh, know it's a bit below your pay grade, but could you explain the process to me?" John asked, with what he hoped was a winning smile. "For adoption?"

Keegan gave him a polite once-over. "For yourself?" he asked, delicate but dubious. John didn't blame him, when John was smelling the way he did. It didn't take the results from John's physical exam to know that John's body was more than capable of carrying a child.

Christ, what a bonkers thing to say.

"No, uh-" John thought fast. "For my sister. She and her wife are both alphas and well-"

As far as excuses went, it was a surprisingly good one. Keegan was already nodding. "We often have same gender couples experiencing that issue. It's particularly difficult for alphas. How long have they been mated?"

"Four years," John said, which was probably wrong, but it hardly mattered. He listened with half an ear while Keegan talked to him about their adoption process, making acknowledging sounds in the appropriate places. 

By the time Sherlock returned, John had three different pamphlets on adoption, a request form and Keegan's card so that 'Harry' could talk to him about booking a consultation. John looked at the earnest expression on Keegan's face and wondered if John himself was meant to be taking note of the man's number as well. It was hard to tell these days.

There was a rap on the door and Sherlock walked in without bothering to wait for Keegan to call him in. "Have you got the information that you were looking for, John? Good, let's go."

The words were delivered with the casual authority of the Voice, which didn't matter to John since he'd been ready to do exactly that for a good hour by this point. It was rather more effective on Keegan, who looked surprised at the ease with which Sherlock had told him what to do.

John let Sherlock deal with the process of extracting them from the building, which included another round of effusive thanks for Mr. Holmes' financial support and an invitation to dinner with the CEO of the company. 

John waited until they were in a cab zooming back to Baker Street before he spoke. "Does Mycroft know that you stole his checkbook?" 

Sherlock waved a hand. "He shouldn't have made it so easy to find," he said, which meant 'of course not, don't be stupid' in Sherlockese. "It's not as though he's actually going to pay them. He only needs to make it look like the money's been transferred until my investigation's finished."

"Mm hmm. And what's to stop him from cancelling it right away?"

"The fact that he'll consider this a favour that I owe him," Sherlock said. The look on his face made it clear that Sherlock was looking forward to disproving Mycroft of this notion.

John shook his head. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Not yet." 

"How about that maternity house Platt was talking about?" John suggested. "Do you think that has anything to do with it?"

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "Doubtful. It's too closely connected to their legitimate business practices. They'll be using it as a smokescreen."

"But you're sure that this is the right adoption agency."

"Oh yes. There's no doubt of that."

"So now we know where the children are going," John said. "But we've still got to figure out where they're coming from."

"Not to worry, John." Sherlock fished in his pocket, pulled out a memory stick and offered John a smirk. "I know where to start."

John couldn't help a rueful smile. "You were terrorizing Keegan's secretary while I was talking to him, weren't you?" 

"Really, John, I don't know where you get this idea that I terrorize people."

"And here I thought you were supposed to be clever." John sighed. "Bet I can guess what we're doing tonight."

"You weren't going to do anything with your time anyway," Sherlock said, with supreme confidence. "Don't worry. You'll still have plenty of time to masturbate."

Sometimes, John really hated his flatmate.

\---

John and Sherlock settled into a pattern over the next few days. Well, as much of a pattern as they ever managed to follow. Neither of them were turning out to be particularly good at routines.

John's heat continued to be largely unobtrusive, which he appreciated. He earned some confused double takes whenever he was out of the flat, which John first thought was because he was outside at all, but the number of other omegas on the streets who smelled faintly of hunger and melted sugar soon put paid to that notion. Eventually, he came to the conclusion that it was a combination of the fact that he was still unmated at his age - incredibly noticeable now that his body was putting out 'open John season' pheromones - and the fact that he was out in public alone. 

The first point was irritating and rather laughable, but John had to admit that the second was a valid concern. Alphas especially had taken to standing too close when he was in the shops or waiting for the tube, their scents rising in response to John's - encouraging him to lean over and bury his face in their clothes. While John was confident of his ability to 'convince' any man or woman that he was most decidedly not looking to get chatted up right now, he knew that, eventually, it wouldn't be just one alpha at a time. And he didn't like trusting his odds that far. 

Touch started becoming a problem, as well. Skin to skin contact sent his pulse skyrocketing, especially if the person touching him was an alpha or beta. John's tendency towards long sleeves made it less of an issue than it would otherwise have been, but he needed to be highly aware of where his hands were to avoid any accidental and inappropriate flares of desire when accepting his change at the local chippy or taking the Tube.

John hadn't got to the point where he was going to have to ask Sherlock if he'd accompany him every time he left the flat - which was going to be _such_ a treat - but he knew he'd have to do so eventually.

He was rather looking forward to forcing Sherlock to come to Sainsbury's with him, though.

When he wasn't too preoccupied by either his hormones or the mundane details of not starving to death, John had the dubious honour of helping Sherlock investigate the prostitution ring. 

Sherlock went to work on the data from Keegan's files, while John got to go through three years' worth of missing persons cases to see if any of them fit the criteria Sherlock laid out for the victims. It was a tedious, time-consuming affair that kept John up far, far later than he really appreciated.

Sleep deprivation was something that John was used to. Between med school and the army, John would have washed out years ago if he hadn't been able to get by on not nearly enough sleep. Unfortunately, Sherlock had taken this as encouragement to experiment with just how little sleep John needed to function. John still hadn't decided whether Sherlock was exploring the impact of sleep deprivation on ex-army soldiers or was trying to do away with John's need for sleep entirely. 

Which was bad enough on its own, let alone when John had the ever-rising symptoms of his heat distracting him from even the simplest of tasks.

"Go to bed, John," Sherlock said irritably, at some miserable hour of the morning on the fourth day.

John blinked muzzily at him. "Hmm?"

"You need sleep."

"Since when do you care if I get any sleep?" John asked, feeling suddenly more awake. "Usually you just push me out of the way if I fall asleep on top of the files."

"You're more susceptible to your hormones when you're overtired," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "Your chair is now three point seven inches closer to mine than it was two hours ago and you're inclining towards me across the desk despite the fact that it's putting weight into your bad shoulder."

A dull flush filled John's cheeks and he jerked upright quickly enough that he nearly overturned his chair. "Sorry."

Sherlock made an absent noise, not bothering to look up from the file he was reading. 

John coughed. "Right. I'll just pop off to bed, then. Don't go running off without me tomorrow."

Sherlock didn't say anything and John firmed his jaw.

"Sherlock." Still nothing. "Sherlock, I mean it."

Sherlock made a shooing motion. "Yes, yes, fine, go away. And try to wank quietly, if you would."

Just for that, John was going to have the loudest wank ever. 

\---

The next morning, John woke up feeling like he'd fallen asleep in the Afghan sun: hot, itchy and desperate for any kind of relief from the ache in his bones. He dragged himself over the door, grimacing at the slick slide of lubricant between his buttocks, unlocked it and went out onto the landing.

"Sherlock!" he called down the stairs, in a voice that sounded like he'd spent the entire night drinking whiskey neat. "Have you run off yet?"

There was a rustling sound, and then Sherlock's deep voice answering, "I'm going to take it as a given that you realize what a ridiculous question that is."

John ignored him. "Are you going to run off in the next half hour?"

More rustling. "No."

"Good." John went back into his room, locked the door and shakily pulled out one of the ruddy dildos from the box under his bed. Then he tried very hard not to think about what he was doing, and got on with it.

Half an hour later, John felt messy, sated and still nearly as randy as he had been when he'd started. It was like being a teenager all over again. He let himself out of his room and headed straight for the loo, pausing briefly to shout, "eat some breakfast!" over one shoulder as he went.

John poured himself into the shower to wash off the worst of the sweat, slick and ejaculate, wondering absently why sex had to be even messier in this world than it ever had been at home. The quick wash, coupled with the fact that he'd actually got a few hours of undisturbed sleep, left John feeling surprisingly fresh when he finally wandered out into the sitting room, dressed in a light cardigan and the most comfortable pair of jeans he owned. 

"Finally," Sherlock said. He was standing in front of the sofa, staring at a map he'd taped to the wall. There were half a dozen drawing pins at random points on the map and John saw a photo of Fuller tacked up there as well, along with notes from some of the cold cases John had been looking through. "How can it possibly take you so long to toss off?"

"Does Mrs. Hudson know that you're sticking things to her wall?" John said instead of answering. He started towards the kitchen, only to have Sherlock block his way.

"No, no, stop," Sherlock said, and grabbed John's wrist.

John's breath hissed out sharply at the contact and he tore himself free with a frantic jerk. His skin tingled where Sherlock's fingers had been, suddenly cold without that touch, and John's carefully banked arousal rose up sharp and swift until John could hardly breathe through the want.

John backed up until he nearly hit the wall, hardly aware of the way he'd brought his arm up to his chest, opposite hand wrapped around his wrist where Sherlock's had just been. 

"Damn it, Sherlock!" he growled, fighting the urge to breathe in the familiar, heavy scent of Sherlock and never come back out. "We talked about the touching!"

Sherlock, for his part, looked almost startled by John's reaction. "Your sensitivity to physical contact has increased."

"I had noticed, thank you," John shot back, rubbing at his skin.

"Is it that extreme with everyone?" Sherlock asked, with his deducting face on.

John felt his cheeks heat. "No experimenting with my heat, remember?"

Sherlock made an impatient sound. "This is important, John. Do you or do you not lose control when people touch your skin?"

"Lose control?" John repeated, wrinkling his nose at the words. "No. It's distracting and embarrassing but it's nothing I can't work through."

"Hmm. That hardly explains your behaviour just now."

"Well, you caught me off guard," John muttered. "And it's worse with you because," he bit his lip and forged bravely onwards, "because we live together, I think. My hormones are in tune with your scent in a way they aren't with other alphas."

"Hmm," Sherlock said again, looking thoughtful.

John belatedly realized that he still had his hand pressed close to his chest and he lowered it, feeling silly. "What was all that in aid of, anyway?"

"Oh, I need your help." This time, Sherlock settled for gesturing imperiously until John sighed and walked over to stand in front of the sofa. 

"I was going to make myself breakfast," John said, though mildly. 

"Later." Sherlock shoved the box of drawing pins at John. "I need you to mark off the points on the map that I tell you to."

"Couldn't you do this yourself?" John asked.

"I have other avenues of inquiry to pursue." Sherlock stepped back, leaving John staring at the map. "First location: the Putney Exchange on Putney High Street."

"Right, okay," John said, swinging his eyes towards Wandsworth.

The tapping of keys filled the air and John realized that Sherlock was talking to him while going through the data from New Beginnings. Bloody overachiever. "Next! 68 Parkh-"

"Leave off a minute, Sherlock!" John found the first location and inserted the pin. "Right, that's done it. What was the next one?"

"Don't forget the picture," Sherlock said. 

"What picture?"

"Of the missing omega who worked there, John, do keep up."

"Give me strength," John muttered. "Care to tell me which one that is, your Excellency?"

Sherlock responded with a remarkably unhelpful gesture towards the stack of files on the coffee table and John sighed. 

"Any chance of me getting a cup of tea out of this?" he called, as he started digging through pile.

There was no answer from Sherlock, but a few minutes later, John had a cup of tea and a plate of toast shoved under his nose.

"It's expedient," Sherlock said, when John turned an incredulous look his way. "I have no desire to listen to your stomach complaining all morning. And you get surly when you don't get fed at regular intervals."

"I didn't think you even knew how to use the toaster," John said, not entirely joking.

Sherlock sniffed. "Really, John. Haven't you realized by now that I can do everything?"

"Liar," John said confidently and surprised a genuine grin out of Sherlock. And if he chose not to point out that Sherlock clearly wasn't as immune to the need to take care of unhappy omegas as he thought, well, that was John's lookout.

\---

"Done," John said finally, a good three hours after he'd started working on Sherlock's map. "Thank Christ." He set the box of pins down with relief, rotating his shoulders to get rid of the lingering stiffness.

"Good." Sherlock abandoned the files on the table and came over to join John in staring at the now very busy London map. John watched Sherlock's pale eyes track across the constellation of red drawing pins, skipping frequently to the photos and notes radiating out from them.

"Right, glad that's over. You hungry?" John left Sherlock to his staring contest with the wall and headed towards the kitchen. "I think there's still some Chinese takeaway left from the other night."

"I need to go out," Sherlock said abruptly. He blurred into motion, swirling into his coat and scarf before John had even finished processing his words.

John made an abortive move towards his own coat. "You want me t-"

The door slammed loudly with Sherlock on the other side.

"-come with," John finished with a sigh. "You could at least have said thank you, you prat!" he yelled at the door.

The door burst open again. "Don't leave the flat," Sherlock ordered, hanging off the doorknob to counterbalance his dramatic almost-entrance. "I don't have time for you to get molested today."

He left again, the slam of the door followed by the clatter of his feet on the steps. A moment later, John heard the front door go as well and he was left standing alone and adrift in the middle of the sitting room, with irritation and unwilling arousal curling inside him.

John looked again at the mess he'd spent the entire morning sticking to the wall. He sighed heavily. "Bollocks."

\---

John was getting podgy.

Sherlock hadn't returned to the flat by the time John went to bed that night, so John had taken the opportunity for a slightly louder wank before falling into a hot, restless sleep. 

The morning opened in much the same way all of John's mornings had since his heat had started: with a lot of sweating, panting and fervid but unsatisfying orgasms. Still, John hadn't been feeling appreciably more miserable than he had the day before, which was a blessing. He'd actually been almost cheerful as he climbed into the shower, washed off the mess and dried himself off.

But then he'd looked in the mirror.

John frowned at his reflection, in some vain hope that stern disapproval would reverse whatever cruel twist of fate had him softening about the middle. The muscles of his stomach were hidden by a thin, protective layer of fat that John would have sworn hadn't been there last month. Granted, he'd been eating more lavishly since coming to Other London, but that really wasn't saying much considering that he'd been living mainly on army rations and tea beforehand. And it wasn't like the occasional chip butty wasn't going to be offset by the sheer amount of time he spent running all across God's green Earth to try and keep Sherlock alive.

Yet, here he was. Podgy. Even his face was rounder than it should have been. Maybe he should take up jogging or something.

"It's normal," Sherlock said, when John tromped disconsolately into the sitting room a few minutes later. Sherlock was studying the map on the wall, impeccably dressed as always and looking as though he'd been standing there all night.

Which he could have been, John supposed. The man was a bloody ninja sometimes. 

"I didn't even hear you come in." John slumped wearily into his chair. "And what's normal? I wasn't aware that anything passed as normal around here." 

"You're worried about your weight," Sherlock said, not sparing John a glance. "You needn't bother. It's weight distribution, not weight gain."

John stared at him. "How could you _possibly_ -"

"You spent an extra three and a half minutes in the bathroom after your shower, in addition to the previous increase of time brought on by your heat-induced masturbatory habits. You're wearing a jumper that is oversized and shapeless even by your dubious standards-"

"Oi!"

"-and, in addition, you came straight into the sitting room instead of preparing breakfast as you would normally. Obviously contemplating skipping it. You might as well go ahead and eat; it's your body's reaction to your heat, not a reflection on your diet."

"It is?" John frowned a little, trying to remember if he'd read that in any of the documents that Mycroft had sent him. "Some kind of uterine expansion?" he guessed.

Sherlock shook his head. "Omegas are designed for child rearing. Softness is subliminally associated with safety by both adults and children, further establishing omegas as non-threatening. Additional weight in the abdominal region is also good protection for unborn fetuses and fleshier hips make better supports for carrying children."

"So it's going to go away after my heat's done?" John asked hopefully.

"No," Sherlock said baldly, because he was a horrible person. "These physical changes are part of the natural hormonal shift that comes with an omega's first heat. It would have happened years ago if you'd been born in this world but, as it stands, you're experiencing it retroactively." Sherlock darted a glance and an amused quirk of his lips in John's direction. "Congratulations, John, you're essentially going through a second puberty."

John groaned. "As if it wasn't bad enough the first time around. This just keeps getting better and better."

"It's not worth worrying about," Sherlock said dismissively. "Most people won't notice anyway."

"I'll notice," John grumbled, but it was half-hearted at best. "Well, in that case, I suppose it's time for breakfast after all. Will you eat some toast?"

"Tea for me," Sherlock said. 

"I'll rephrase that: I'm making toast and you're going to eat some. How's the investigation coming?" John added, as he climbed to his feet and padded into the kitchen. "Thanks for running off without me, yesterday, by the way."

"There's something missing." Sherlock tapped one finger against his chin, clearly talking more to himself than John. "John, I need you to go upstairs."

"Have you been hiding things in my bedroom again?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock said absently. He scribbled something on one of the photographs and kept staring.

"Then why am I going upstairs?"

"You're distracting."

John huffed. "Oh, I'm _so_ sorry. Am I breathing too loudly?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Don't be tedious, John. You know perfectly well to what I'm referring."

"Right, yes, of course I do. Because God forbid I can stand in my own kitchen." 

"John."

"Upstairs, right. Or do you want I should take your brother up on his invite out to your manor house?" John asked, with heavily false solicitude. "Get out of your hair."

"Don't be stupid, John, that's hardly conducive to- oh, _oh_ , of course!" Sherlock's entire face lit up with understanding and he leaned forwards so that he was practically nose-to-map. "Where is it, where is it, you have to be here you- ha!"

Sherlock stabbed a finger at the map. "Here!"

John walked over to have a look. "What is it?"

Sherlock whirled on him with the elated, triumphant expression that heralded a barrage of arrogant brilliance. John's stomach tightened and he took a deliberate step back to put Sherlock out of arm's reach. Sherlock noticed, of course he did, but John couldn't bring himself to feel flustered by the fact. 

Luckily, Sherlock restricted his reaction to a raised eyebrow, clearly more interested in the case than John's prick. Which was more than fine with John.

"It's a hotel. Come along, John!" Sherlock said, before John could ask how he knew that. "It's time we paid a visit to Lestrade and told him we've solved his case for him."

John rolled his eyes. "First off, you haven't solved it for him since we've still got a prostitution ring to shut down. Second of all, neither of us are going anywhere until after breakfast."

Sherlock looked unimpressed. "Really, John."

"Really, Sherlock," John agreed. "Deal with it." He went back into the kitchen and opened the cupboard over the sink, skirting carefully around the suspiciously unlabelled containers that Sherlock had left there. "Do you want blackberry or strawberry jam?"

"Neither," Sherlock said.

"Marmalade it is then."

Sherlock pouted at him. " _John_."

"Not listening, Sherlock. You can whinge all you like; you're still eating at least one slice of toast." 

"Have you always been this ridiculously intractable?"

John considered. "Actually, I think all these hormones are mellowing me out. Aren't you lucky? Flick the kettle on, would you?"

\---

Sherlock managed a cup of tea and nearly three-quarters of a piece of toast before he jiggered both of them out the door and into a cab.

"Lestrade's not at the Yard," Sherlock explained, when John gave him a sideways look for the apparently random address he gave the cabbie. "We're going out to the crime scene."

"I'd ask how you know where said crime scene is, but I don't think I want to know."

Sherlock's mouth lifted in the ghost of a smile. "Where's your sense of adventure, doctor?"

"I'm saving it up for when the running starts," John said. He smirked. "Obviously."

In the close confines of the cab, John's scent was obvious and heavy and John could see the cabbie - _beta, mated thirteen years, prefers women, stop worrying about it, John_ \- giving them looks in the mirror. Sherlock, unsurprisingly, hardly seemed to notice at all. For his part, John pushed himself up against the door and ignored how good Sherlock smelled. Resistant to his nature though he was, John was neither a robot nor Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock's scent in close quarters was far too tempting for John to want to get any closer than he had absolutely to. 

The cabbie dropped them off at the address that Sherlock had given him. It was a sign of how much time Sherlock spent swanning around crime scenes that no one even questioned it when he ducked under the tape and held it up for John to pass through. Which was not to say that they didn't garner any attention at all, though, because they did.

Or, rather, John did. 

"Heading to war, soldier?" Sherlock murmured, amusement clear in his voice, and John belatedly realized that he'd squared his shoulders and lengthened his stride into a march in response to the widening eyes and blatant stares that his scent was attracting. 

"I'm standing with you, aren't I?" John shot back, refusing to be embarrassed. "I'm always heading to war."

Sherlock's little smirk turned into a proper smile, bright and pleased.

Unsurprisingly, Anderson was the first one to block their access to the scene. Anderson and John had got off on the wrong foot almost immediately, both because Anderson and Sherlock clearly hated each other and because Anderson was a small, insignificant little beta who liked to make himself feel more like a man by looking down on others. In John's case, the fact that he was an omega was apparently Anderson's cue to be a chauvinistic arse at every given opportunity.

Sure enough, Anderson's nostrils flared as they approached and a leering smile crossed his face. "Well, well, Freak," he said, being deliberately loud. "Smells like your bit of rough is kinkier than we thought. Looking to get arrested for knotting in public?"

"Anderson," John said pleasantly. "You say one more word and I will pitch you out of this crime scene myself."

Anderson scoffed. "You're the one disrupting the scene coming here smelling like that. How are we supposed to work with you stinking like an omega whore house?"

"Leave it off, Anderson," Lestrade said, before John could follow through on his threat and break the man's wrist while he was at it. Lestrade cast a quick look over them and John braced himself as he watched Lestrade's nostrils flare and his eyes go dark with intent.

To John's surprise and relief, Lestrade restricted his comment to a low, "Everything alright, John?"

"Of course it is," Sherlock said. "Otherwise he wouldn't be here."

"Shut up, Sherlock." Protective concern - and a bit of possessiveness - turned Lestrade's eyes gentle. "John?"

John nodded firmly. "I'm fine."

Lestrade nodded back. "Alright then. Now," he said, louder. "How about you two explain what you're doing on my crime scene when I know, for a fact, that I didn't invite you."

"Informing you that I've found your prostitution ring," Sherlock said, bringing every inch of his public school accent to bear.

"You _what_?"

"You're welcome. Now, I need you t-"

"Sherlock," Lestrade said. "You may not have noticed, but we're kind of in the middle of something."

Sherlock followed the sweep of Lestrade's hand towards the body slumped over the steering wheel of the car they were standing next to.

"Obvious," Sherlock said immediately. "It was his work partner. Sleeping with this man's wife. Did it for the insurance policy. _Now_ will you listen?"

Lestrade sighed. "You lot keep at it!" he called to the assembled police officers and then walked Sherlock and John to a point out of the way of the main thoroughfare. "Alright, Sherlock, I'm all ears. You know where they are?"

"No," Sherlock said, in such a way as to make it sound like he wasn't directly contradicting what he'd just said. "But I know how they're choosing their targets and I know where to go to catch them in the act."

"Brilliant. Smashing. Hip hip hooray. Don't suppose you're going to tell us?" Lestrade asked.

John stifled a grin. 

"They target omegas in poor relationships with their relatives or mates," Sherlock said, pointedly ignoring the pair of them. "Omegas whose sudden and complete absences could be explained away to stupid people as something other than kidnapping."

"So they make it look like murder and pin it on their family?" John asked. "Like with Fuller's wife."

"A missing person's case without a body is more likely to be dismissed as a runaway than a murder," Sherlock corrected. "Especially when there is due cause to believe that the missing person was dramatically unhappy in their home life. No need to supply a body, either."

"No one's going to believe that someone just up and leaves without a word," Lestrade said. "I don't care what you think about the police; there's no way that sort of thing would fly."

"No," Sherlock agreed. "But it would when a great deal of money had been recently removed from the omega's bank account and a suitcase containing clothing and toiletries from the house. Both easy enough to obtain with access to the omega's wallet and address. It's also likely that the members of the ring wait for omegas to leave of their own volition, to visit their parents or whatever it is that people do when they're sick of their relationships and want somewhere to go and feel miserable."

"Sherlock," John said, gently chiding. Not that Sherlock was actually listening, of course.

"So, they're taking people who run away from home?" Lestrade asked, a frown creasing his brow. "How the hell are we supposed to figure out who their next target is? Let alone how the ring finds them in the first place."

Sherlock's answering sigh was heavy with impatience. "Sometimes you give Anderson a run for his money in the idiocy department, Lestrade."

"Sherlock!" John said again, sharper this time.

"It's fine, John," Lestrade said, looking somewhere between pleased that John was on his side and embarrassment that John was standing up for him. John resisted the childish urge to step on his foot. "I'm used to it. Any chance of getting an answer without insults, this time?"

"Well they're not watching every door in the city to see when appropriate candidates run away from home, if that's what you're asking. Where do you people usually stay when they don't want to go home and they can't stay with their friends?" 

"The hotel," John realized. "The one on the map. You think that the staff is tipping off the prostitution ring when suitable victims show up."

Sherlock gave him an approving smile. "Not all of them, obviously; not every person who hates their life actually has the nerve to walk out of it, even temporarily. But yes."

"But there are as many hotels as buses in London," Lestrade said. "How can they bank on omegas using that one, specifically?"

"It's amazing the number of support groups and relationship counselors there are in London," Sherlock said, which didn't sound much like an answer until he added, "And even more amazing how many fliers they provide about 'safe havens' in the city. The ring likely has people in place to encourage unhappy omegas to use their hotels, but it's also amazing the effect that subliminal messaging has on the distraught psyche."

"Brilliant," John said, meeting Sherlock's triumphant grin with one of his own. "Is that where you were yesterday? Investigating relationship counselors?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Not for the _entire_ day."

"Wait," Lestrade said, drawing Sherlock's attention back to him. "None of this helps us catch the ring. It'd take a miracle to get a warrant with that complete lack of evidence and, even if I got one, there won't be anything to find at the hotel."

"That's why we're going to use bait."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Bait."

Sherlock nodded and John had a flash of realization a bare moment before Sherlock said, "John can do it."

"What?!" Lestrade demanded, before John had decided how to respond to that. "Sherlock, you can't be serious!"

"Why not?" Sherlock asked. "It's heat season and the ring is now short one omega who undoubtedly had several buyers lined up; they've had Fuller more than long enough to prepare his portfolio. Given that the heat cycles of most omegas have already begun and the fact that it is far too late for any omega still on suppressants to come off them in time for this cycle, they'll be desperate for a replacement."

Lestrade looked dangerously close to bursting a blood vessel. "So you're going to gift wrap John for them? Are you completely out of your tree?"

"John fits the required parameters," Sherlock said, as though that was the biggest potential stumbling block to his madness.

John thought about Fuller: younger than John, dark haired, slender. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Are we talking about the same dead body, Sherlock? Because besides my gender, I can't see a whole lot that I have in common with the poor sod."

Sherlock made an impatient sound. "As always, you fail to look beyond the superficial details. They'll have buyers for a male omega of below average height with no prior pregnancies. Weight is negotiable, especially since John's solid enough to endure multiple couplings in a short span of time, which is good for business. The view from the back will be the most important for their clients and John has an attractively rounded posterior-"

"You know what?" John said, face flaming. "Consider me convinced and please stop talking."

Sherlock blinked at him. "You asked."

"The more fool me," John agreed.

"You still can't send John," Lestrade said and John bristled despite himself.

"Why not?" he asked, apparently with more steel to it than he'd intended, judging by the way Lestrade's eyes widened.

"I- you, John you can't seriously be considering this. You're a civilian." He turned to Sherlock. "We'll get one of the omegas on staff t-"

"You haven't got anyone suitable," Sherlock interrupted him. "93% of all omegas employed by Scotland Yard are desk workers and are, understandably, ill-equipped to work in the field. Furthermore, all of them are bonded. Are you honestly so determinedly short-sighted that you believe any alpha or beta would let their omega mate walk into a trap when you can't even keep from trying to coddle John who clearly finds himself contemplating bodily harm every time someone treats him that way?"

"Seriously, Sherlock," John said. "You can stop any time now."

Sherlock appeared not to agree. "You've also missed the incredibly obvious fact that, unlike your other options, John is the perfect candidate."

"Am I?" John asked. "And how's that then?"

"You're unbonded, childless and can easily explain your sexual frustration away as a result of the row you've had with your fictional alpha. In this scenario: me."

"Sexual frustration?" Anderson sneered suddenly and John fought the urge to groan aloud. When did he get there? "Always knew you were a freak. You've got an unbonded omega in heat between your sheets and you don't even know what to do with i- fuck!"

John had Anderson by the neck and slammed up against the closest wall in six seconds flat. "I," he said calmly to Anderson, who was staring at him with widely bugging eyes that made him look even less attractive than usual, "am not a thing to be talked about. Nor am I going to tolerate insults from the likes of you. The only person who gets to choose what to do with me is me, and I would appreciate it if you would remember that."

Without warning, he released Anderson's neck and watched him stagger. "The next time you talk about me - or any omega in your unit - like that, I'm going to issue a formal complaint with your superiors. Oh," John said, and didn't let his affable smile drop for a moment as he added, "And if you ever touch me again, I'll break your fingers. Self-defense, of course."

Message delivered, John spun away with a perfectly executed parade turn, leaving Anderson gaping after him, thankfully silent for once. 

Sherlock watched him stalk over with a decidedly amused twinkle in his eyes. "Well," he said, not so much being tactful as relishing the moment. "You do realize that-"

"Mention hormones to me and I'll shove you against a wall too," John warned, though he could feel a laugh threatening in the back of his throat. 

"Given the fact that I was about say that your rather combative relationship with your hormones was another factor in our favour, I shall refrain."

"It's still combative," John offered. "Just not the way you're thinking."

Sherlock's eyes sparked with humour. "Either way, they won't be expecting it."

There was a beat, and then they both broke out into giggles, while Lestrade made a face at the pair of them and Anderson sulked like a wet cat in the background.

"If you're quite done," Lestrade said, in his 'I work with children' voice. "How about you explain what you're talking about."

Sherlock responded with his 'I have very little faith in the Met's ability to string a full sentence together between the lot of them' voice. "Unless this operation takes considerably longer than it needs to - which it won't, since I'm organizing it - John is unlikely to fall victim to his biology and so doesn't have to fear instigating his own rape."

John just about swallowed his tongue. "Sherlock!"

"Er," Lestrade coughed, with an apologetic glance at John. "Biology isn't exactly something that you can turn off, Sherlock." _Except for you, maybe_ , Lestrade didn't say, but he didn't really need to.

Sherlock didn't look bothered. "How far into his heat is John right now, Detective Inspector?"

Lestrade blinked and turned to John with a question in his eyes.

John waved a hand. "Oh, go on then. He's going to be insufferable until you do."

"Right." Lestrade approached and took a deliberate sniff. His eyes roved across John's body, taking in the sweat beading along his hairline, the open button on his shirt and the state of the front of his trousers.

"Well?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Four days," Lestrade said, with a certainty that surprised John. "Maybe four and a half."

"You!" Sherlock said to two officers who were standing nearby and trying very hard not to listen. "You agree?"

John groaned. "Sherlock, I am not a circus act."

"Quiet, John. Well?"

Hesitantly, the two officers approached and John consciously relaxed as they took him in.

The first, an alpha, agreed almost immediately. The other was a beta and, while she took a moment longer to decide, she also agreed with Lestrade.

Which meant that John really couldn't fault Sherlock for the smug triumph plastered all over his face when he said, "seven."

_"What?!"_

John earned himself a double-take from absolutely everyone in hearing distance and he tried to focus on exasperation rather than embarrassment. 

"What did I say about talking about my sex life in public?" he asked Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked entirely unrepentant.

"How are you even upright seven days in?" Lestrade demanded, with what John recognized as worry. "Christ, Sherlock, you shouldn't have let him come out."

Pursing his lips, John fought the urge to tell Lestrade off for that.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "John's fine. Aren't you, John?"

"Perfectly fine," John gritted, feeling his shoulders square again. 

"Like you," Sherlock said to Lestrade. "The criminals will erroneously conclude that John is not as far into his heat as he actually is, which will keep them from putting him to work-" John winced "-immediately since omegas in heat fever are both easier to control and more entertaining for their clients. They'll also likely find it unnecessary to drug John during the interim since the fever will be on him imminently and they won't want him still suffering the effects of the drugs while servicing-" John winced again "-their clients." 

"There a reason you know so much about sex trafficking, Freak?" Anderson asked snidely.

"Anderson, go away," Sherlock said, calmly dismissive. "No one wants to hear you speak. Ever. Well, Lestrade? Ready to stop complaining yet?"

"And what do you have to say about this mad idea, John?" Lestrade asked, which John appreciated very much. He could see how much it went against Lestrade's instincts to offer him the choice instead of insisting that he stay safe.

Unfortunately for Lestrade's blood pressure however, John had made his decision long before they'd started arguing. God help him. "If Sherlock thinks he can figure out how to make this work without me ending up as a baby-making sex slave for the rest of my life-"

"Of course I can, John, don't be stupid."

"-then it looks like I'm your best bet. So let's figure out how to get me abducted by a prostitution ring." He leveled a warning finger at Sherlock. "And if you say one word about putting a tracker up my rectum, you will not live to regret it."

\---

In the end, the plan was very simple.

"I feel like I'm about to book a room at Hare's lodging house," John remarked as he thumped down the stairs with his duffel bag over his shoulder. "End up on the dissection table if I'm not careful."

Sherlock blinked at him owlishly. "What?"

"Burke and Hare?" John tried. "The Scottish serial killers who murdered their tenants and sold the bodies to a medical school? There's even a children's rhyme about it."

"Fascinating," Sherlock said, staring at John as though he was some rare species of poisonous insect.

"What is?"

"The further proof that, despite the gross similarities, there are still differences to be found between this world and the one you came from."

It was John's turn to blink, surprised. "They didn't exist here? Are you sure?"

The look Sherlock gave him was positively withering. "As if I would not know about a notorious pair of serial killers."

John had to grin. "Fair enough. Gives me a story to tell you when this is all over, anyway."

"I'll look forward to it. You're ready to go?" It was more a statement of fact than a question.

"Should be, yeah. Packed enough clothes for a week away from home." 

"Good." Sherlock glanced out the window. "Your taxi is here. Lestrade and I will be monitoring the hotel." 

In the original plan, Sherlock had been planning on keeping tabs on John alone. Lestrade had about had an apoplexy. John didn't envy them that stakeout.

"Right." John threw a stern look at Sherlock. "If I wind up as a high-rent baby-maker, I'm going to be more that a little put out with you."

"An understandable reaction." Sherlock's expression was uncharacteristically sober as he added, "Stay safe. And try to behave like a normal omega, for once."

John found a smile for him. "I always behave like an omega. Since when do you approve of normal anything?" 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing as John headed down the stairs and out to the waiting cab. 

The cabbie pulled into traffic and John took a deep breath, trying to get himself into the mindset of a distraught boyfriend who'd just packed his bags because his partner was a prick. Though it had rankled at the time, John was glad now that Sherlock had suggested that he think of Sherlock as his mystery alpha; Sherlock had plenty of bad habits that John could use as fodder for his fictional breakdown.

John had the cab drop him off around the corner from the hotel, then trudged through the streets with his rucksack over his good shoulder and a small carry bag in his other hand. Neither of them were particularly light, which wouldn't have bothered John eight months ago when he was used to carrying his kit and medical supplies from one location to another, but now, months of forced inactivity and the very real ache of his wounded shoulder were conspiring together to make for quite the unpleasant walk.

A bell over the door jangled as John walked in and the heavyset woman behind the desk looked up at him.

"Hello," she said, in a strong cockney accent. "An' welcome to-"

John stepped closer and her smile faltered when she smelled the ripeness of his scent, the undeniable proof that he was an omega in heat.

"How sturdy are the locks on your doors?" John asked. He was uncomfortably aware that the effort of walking coupled with his heat were making him look decidedly red-cheeked and sweaty. 

"Cor," the woman breathed, openly surprised. She was a beta, which fit in with Sherlock's theory; an omega in charge wouldn't project the sense of safety that distressed omegas would be seeking while an alpha would have been too much of a liability. "Don't often see people out and about in your state, luv, I can tell you that."

"The locks," John said again. "How sturdy are they? I'm going to need a room with a strong lock."

"I- they're in good condition, but I'm still not sure I should be renting out to you. How far along are you?"

John bit his lip instead of raising his chin the way he wanted to. "Six days," he said, which Sherlock had said was about the farthest he could push it back without making it obvious that he was lying. They needed his kidnappers to believe that he was still a couple of days away from proper heat fever or else John might end up being put to 'work' before Sherlock and Lestrade could rescue him. 

The beta's eyebrows shot up. "And you're out in public?" 

John huffed out something that wasn't a laugh. "Guess so."

"You got someone meeting you here?"

"Is that against the rules?" John hedged, not quite an answer.

She raised her hands. "Only if you're charging for it."

John didn't need to fake being flustered when he caught up with that insinuation. "What? No-no, oh no. I'm not. It's just me," he concluded lamely.

"Hmm." Her eyes were thoughtful as they skimmed over him. "You traveling somewhere?"

John shook his head with a determinedly bitter snort. "Not in the way you're thinking." 

"No offense meant, but shouldn't you be at home in your condition?"

"Isn't a place on Earth I'd rather be less," John said, fighting to hit some believable balance of wary and talkatively distraught.

 _Omegas like to talk_ , Sherlock had told him, though God only knew where he'd got his information. John wouldn't have put it past him to be spying through windows to observe the esoteric social practices of the domestic omega or some such nonsense. _Come across angry and defensive enough and they won't wonder about why you're telling them everything._

The woman made a concerned, cooing sort of sound. "There, there, pet. S'there anybody I can call for you? You're in a right state."

"No, no, there's nobody." John fumbled in his pocket for the pamphlet that Sherlock had appropriated from one of the relationship counselor's offices, brandishing it like a theatre ticket. "I saw your hotel's name and I just want a place to stay so he, so he doesn't- _God_ , he is such a-" John let his voice break, channeling every ounce of frustration he had about Sherlock leaving three sheep's bladders in the bathtub last month into making this sound plausible. 

With another soothing hum, the woman came out from behind the desk. "Your mate?" she asked gently. She was, John thought, a much better actor than he was.

"Not for much longer," John said, aiming for upset and falling somewhere closer to angry. Near enough. He drew in a deep breath. "I'm sorry, you don't need to be listening to the end of my relationship. The locks?"

She got close enough to pat his arm; John refused to flinch. "Don't you worry about all that," she said. "The doors are all up to code and the locks are more than strong enough to keep out admirers." She gave him a significant look. "Known or otherwise."

"Not much chance of the second," John said. He bit his lip. "Probably hasn't even noticed I've left. Keeps right on talking as though I've nothing better to do than listen to him."

The beta clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "Shameful. Let's get you checked in then. Alright, luv?"

John decided to be amused rather than irritated by the use of pet names for a highly trained soldier - even an ex-one. There was enough about this mess to be irritated about without adding to the list.

He managed to check in amidst much cooing and subtle probing by the woman and did his best to play the emotionally distraught omega. A gifted actor, John Watson was not, but it didn't seem as though the woman was paying much attention. Which was exactly the reaction that Sherlock had anticipated; between the distraction of John's scent - less potent to betas but still very hard to ignore - and the anticipation she'd be feeling about finding a suitable omega at zero hour, the woman wasn't going to be looking for holes in John's story.

Once he extricated himself from the proprietor, John made his way to his room. It was on the first floor, which didn't surprise him; if he'd been planning on cornering someone, he'd want the windows too high to jump from as well.

John locked the door behind him and slung himself across the bed with a relieved exhale. The pressure against his arse made him uncomfortably aware that he needed to replace his sanitary towel soon or risk soaking the seat of his trousers, but the thought of getting up again was undesirable in the extreme. Deciding that he simply couldn't be arsed to deal with it right now, John turned on the telly instead. He had no way to check in with Sherlock and nothing to say even if he did. Nothing to do but wait.

Step one complete.

Now all he had to do was get his mind off sex and he'd be all set.

\---

John spent the rest of the afternoon alternately wanking, watching telly and wishing he was wanking, which wasn't as much fun as he really thought it should be. He was exhausted and melting all over the bed by the time he decided to pack it in for the night, but he still made  
sure that the door was firmly bolted before he turned in. He had to admit that the woman at the desk hadn't been lying about the quality of the locks. Plausible deniability, maybe. 

Sherlock had been certain that the attack would come somewhere between twelve and three, and John was determined to get in a couple of hours sleep beforehand. His heat symptoms weren't the easiest thing to sleep through, but John kicked off all the bed sheets and settled into the heavy doze that he'd first learned during his residency at Bart's. 

The scrape of a key woke him just past two. 

John slitted his eyes open just a touch and stayed where he was, keeping his breath deliberately sleep-slow.

The half dozen people who crept into the room were dressed in dark clothing and wearing hospital masks across their faces. To keep his pheromones from affecting them, John figured. They were not nearly as quiet on their feet as John would have expected given how many people the ring had kidnapped, although John supposed that most omegas didn't have quite the same training that John did.

John was concentrating so hard on sizing up his unwanted guests without giving himself away that it came almost as a surprise when a cloth, heavy with the thickly cloying scent of chloroform, landed on his face. John startled and found himself unceremoniously shoved back down to the bed, pinned firmly in place by unfamiliar hands while the smell overwhelmed his senses and dragged him down into the darkness.

 _Step two_ , John thought distractedly, before his grip on consciousness slipped away. 

\---

When John woke up, he was strapped to a gurney in a very professional-looking medical exam room. He could hardly think between the residual fuzziness of the drugs and the immediate flare of hunger in his gut. His hips flexed without asking him about it, making him squirm in his bonds in a pointless, undignified attempt to get some relief. 

He was _so_ bloody sick of being in heat.

"Hello," a voice said calmly, and John rolled his head to the side to see a smiling woman in a lab coat standing a few feet away. _Beta_ , his brain informed him, which didn't do nearly as much as he would have liked to prevent the urge to throw himself at her and beg to be touched. Christ, how long had he been out? His symptoms shouldn't have been this much stronger after only a few hours. 

John pulled his weakened defenses tightly around himself, determined not to give himself away.

The woman came forward and stood over the gurney. "How are you feeling?" 

"Wha-?" John mumbled, figuring it was a safe way to start. "Wh-where am I?"

"I'm Dr. Klimitz," she said, ignoring him entirely. "I need to give you a quick physical."

"Where am I?" John repeated, louder. He tried to think of how the victims that he and Sherlock had rescued from various situations had reacted. He yanked at his restraints and tried to look scared. "Please, let me go! I- I- want to go home."

"Shh," she said soothingly. "You're just fine." She retrieved a face mask from somewhere and slipped it on before reaching out and laying gloved hands on John's chest. It was about then that John realized that he was naked. 

John thrashed, biting his lip on a moan. "Please! Stop!"

"None of that now," she said, firm. "I'll give you something if you don't calm down, but I'd rather not."

And John didn't know what the right response was here, but he knew that he didn't want to be drugged. He let the tension seep out of his body, melting back against the gurney with practiced discipline.

Dr. Klimitz made an approving sound that John suspected was meant to make him feel better. 

"I don't-" he started.

"It doesn't matter." There was a terrifying finality to her tone. "Now say 'aah'."

The physical was short but thorough and John was unsurprised when it focused mainly on his groin and arse. Dr. Klimitz seemed entirely unaffected by the way John couldn't help but thrash and groan when she touched him. It almost made John want to appreciate her professionalism; an inappropriate giggle threatened to escape at the thought. She hummed unhappily about the scar on his shoulder, though she seemed happier with his hair, the curve of his cheek.

While she worked, Dr. Klimitz asked him questions about his health and sexual history, praising him for every answer. Some part of John felt warm and content under that praise, but the longer he was awake, the more like himself he felt and the easier it was to bite back his body's instinctive reactions. Although, God only knew how long that was going to last.

"There," Dr. Klimitz said finally, and it sounded like she was smiling behind her mask. "That wasn't so bad now, was it?"

John blinked at her, trying one of Sherlock's innocent expressions on for size. "Please, Doctor, just can you tell me what's going on? Where am I?"

"Those clothes over there are for you," she said, instead of answering. John supposed that deliberate omission was as good a policy as any for her to take with people whose lives she was helping ruin. "Make sure they dress you first."

"They? What d'you mean first? Doctor!" 

Dr. Klimitz left the room without a backwards glance. 

The door hadn't even swung shut behind her before two men and a woman filed in, all wearing masks and gloves and stinking of alpha pheromones. John cringed back against the gurney without thinking about it. "Don't-"

One man went to retrieve the pile of fabric that Dr. Klimitz had pointed out while the other two set to work unstrapping John. Despite himself, John squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sensation of their hands brushing against his fevered skin. Their clinical touches and gloves made it bearable, but the scent of alpha chipped at John's self-control in ways that he really didn't appreciate. 

"Up," the man said, hauling him upright without so much as a by your leave. The shift made John hiss at the pressure on his sensitive arse; he was absently aware of the faint crinkle of concern that creased the man's forehead in response.

Knowing full well how alphas reacted to unhappy omegas, it probably shouldn't have surprised John when their hands were gentle as they helped him off the table and ordered him to dress, but it did. He was set carefully on his feet and allowed to dress himself, although they never took their eyes off him. The clothes fell somewhere between hospital scrubs and pajamas on the clothing scale; the fabric felt scratchy against his overheated skin, but John appreciated the thin layer of protection.

"Move," the woman said, the moment he was dressed, and John was so very tempted to ask if they could only speak in monosyllables. 

Unfortunately, that wasn't the type of person he was supposed to be right now so John kept on stammering helpless drivel instead - _who are you, help, I don't understand, what's going on, please don't touch me_ \- as they marched him out of the exam room.

"Be quiet," one man growled, using the Voice. While John felt no more inclination to obey than he ever did - this man had nothing on Sherlock when it came to telling people what to do -, he was glad for the excuse to stop talking. All this begging and cringing was just embarrassing.

His guards led John through a maze of corridors that he did his best to memorize. Though it went against every fibre of his being - well, the fibres that weren't telling him to turn and present, at any rate - John forced himself to curl in defensively, to duck his chin and to look at his captors through lowered eyelashes instead of head on. In return, they treated him with a surprising amount of care. It was perhaps the first time that John had appreciated that particular genetic trait. 

When they finally stopped, it was in a dead-end hallway lined with doors. Steel doors. Numbered steel doors. 

John stopped dead, because it seemed like the best response. It accomplished absolutely nothing; his guards simply grabbed him by the arms and started dragging. John had to resist the instinctive urge to break their arms and be done with it already. He flailed about weakly as they manhandled him into the room marked '11' and slammed the door shut behind him. 

The sound of the bolt sliding closed behind him seemed terribly loud and John pressed his ear against the door, listening for the muffled sound of departing footsteps. He couldn't hear anything. The room was soundproofed. 

"Bugger," John said, and straightened to take a look around. The room was undeniably a cell: small, windowless and white. There was a bed, bolted to the floor, a small basin and a lavatory in the corner. Nothing else.

John was alone. Trapped.

It was an efficient way for the organization to start breaking in its captives, John had to admit: the impersonal doctor, the lack of communication, the ignoring of his questions, the featureless cell. No one had addressed him by name, even though they were certain to have learned it from the Sherlock-provided ID in John's fake wallet. He was a complete non-person to these people. 

John could only imagine how unnerving and terrifying the whole situation would be for the other omegas that had been kidnapped, the ones who were already emotionally distraught thanks to their domestic troubles. It made him want to shoot somebody. Several somebodies, if possible.

John checked the lock on the door - solid and good quality, but not overly intricate as far as John could tell - and did a quick circuit of the room. It was just as dismally featureless as it had been on first glance, though John was pleasantly surprised not to find any cameras. 

"You'd think they'd have learned their lesson," he said to the empty room, because Sherlock's bad influence had apparently spread to talking to himself. And John didn't even have a skull to blame it on.

Exploration complete, John plopped down on the bed with a heavy sigh. "Well," he said to himself and settled in to wait.

It was all up to Sherlock now.

\---

The rest of John's time as a captive of a prostitution ring was rather anticlimactic. 

The hours passed by treacle-slow. A white-clad somebody shoved a tray of food through the slot in the door about three hours after John had been locked in but, other than that, all John had for company was the white walls and the endless itch under his skin. 

With nothing to distract him from it, John found himself painfully aware of the ever-rising need in his body and, worse, he was completely unable to resist the helpless urge to try and make it stop.

John didn't even know how long he'd been there when he finally gave in, hands fumbling at his trousers despite his best intentions. His cock sprang up heavy and leaking and John bit back a shaky groan as he wrapped his hands around it. His own touch wasn't enough to satisfy his body properly, but John was good at making do with what he had. Being on tour did that to a bloke. He didn't have Mycroft's box with him and John was neither tall enough nor flexible enough to get any real relief from his fingers, which meant that the only proper stimulation he could get was from his prick. Which was fine, to begin with, but he could only toss off so many times before it started to chafe. And all John really wanted to do was take the edge off, to keep himself alert and coherent without falling into exhaustion. 

It didn't go well.

"Fucking hell," John panted to himself, when he sank back down to the bed in defeat. "I don't care how great heat sex is supposed to be, this can't possibly be worth it."

The stupid thing, of course, was that John was the only one to blame for his current situation. Not the kidnapping, of course, though John supposed that listening to Sherlock could be seen as self-destructive behaviour, but the heat itself. 

A quick Internet search back before John's biology went mad had turned up several dating organizations geared towards matching up omegas with compatible alphas and betas. A wounded, middle aged ex-army medic John might be, but he was still an omega and, he liked to think, decently charming and not unattractive. John had no doubt that, given the amount of pornography he'd already found about it, most people on the pull would have jumped at the opportunity to 'help' John through his heat.

In some ways, John didn't quite know why he had decided that he didn't want that. He was quite a fan of sex, as any of his former girlfriends and conquests could have testified. By all accounts, sex during estrus was nothing short of mind blowing and it would have saved John all the discomfort of trying to handle the problem on his own. But random shags weren't really John's thing; he had always preferred having some emotional connection to people he was getting off with.

It was more than that, though. 

John had chosen to go this alone because he needed to prove to himself and the rest of this mad universe that he more than capable of taking care of himself. It would feel like surrender to give into his new biology without even trying to be more than 'just' an omega at the whim of his hormones. This world had certain expectations of him and John was more than stubborn enough not to want to meet them. He'd decided not to use suppressants for essentially the same reason, although that choice had also been influenced by a doctor's desire not to medicate himself unless he really needed to.

Sometimes, John thought, as another frantic burst of almost-painful pleasure made him writhe on the bed like a cheap prostitute, he could be a right idiot.

A sudden scrape of noise had John jerking up and, subsequently, nearly falling off the bed. He scrambled back into his trousers, trying without much success to ignore the tacky mess between his legs. The stink of pheromones and sex was heavy in the small room but John tried nevertheless to rein in his symptoms, to keep enough control over himself in case he needed to convince whomever came through that door that he wasn't 'ready' to get whored out. It was probably true, as well, from what John had read about heat fever, which was a horrifying prospect; John didn't want to know how much worse this was going to get.

The sound came again, resolving into the turn of a key in the lock, and John took a deep, steadying breath.

Then the door swung open and John's breath whooshed out again in a relieved exhale when he saw Sherlock standing on the other side, resplendent in his coat and scarf, one hand still on the key sticking out from the lock.

John managed a weary grin. "What took you so long?"

Sherlock looked down the length of his nose at him. "Locating and successfully infiltrating a well-hidden, well-guarded underground complex within a fifteen hour period is more than adequate. I would have thought a soldier would know how long these sorts of operations usually take."

"Fifteen hours?" John repeated. "Christ. No wonder I'm so sick of this place."

"Less time standing around and more time leaving would help with that." Sherlock shifted out of the doorway without checking to see if John was following. "Watch your step."

"Watch my -oh." John took in the four unconscious bodies on the floor, redirected his gaze to the scraped skin on Sherlock's knuckles and had to smile. "I'm impressed. Since when are you so dangerous?"

"Since I learned how to fight," Sherlock said, in a bland tone that didn't match at all with the smug look on his face. He toed the closest person, who groaned a little but didn't stir further. "If they'd employed guards who were marginally competent they might have stood a better chance."

"But probably not," John said, and it made his already erratic pulse skip when Sherlock grinned at him, bright and wickedly amused.

"A most astute observation, doctor. Come."

"Not a dog, Sherlock," John said, falling in step nonetheless. Which, he told himself, was not any kind of tacit agreement to being treated like that. He just wanted to get out of this place, was all.

"Hush, John." Sherlock paused briefly at an intersection before leading them off to the left. "Your jailers are remarkably incompetent given the successes of their organization, yet I would still rather not alert them to our presence if possible. Being outnumbered by idiots is still inconvenient."

"Sherlock," John said, a terrible suspicion rising in him. "Where's Lestrade?"

Sherlock waved a hand. "Late. I'm sure he and his rather depressing excuse for a team will be here eventually."

"You came on your own?!" John hissed, remembering just in time not to yell. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Would you rather I'd waited?" Sherlock hissed back. "I barely intercepted that lot as it was. I somehow doubt that you would have been more comfortable where they were planning to take you."

John stared at Sherlock's back. "They were there for me?"

John had never realized that it was possible to hear someone rolling their eyes, but Sherlock had always been a man of many talents. "No, John, they were sitting on the floor playing Cluedo. What did you think they were doing there?"

"I thought-" John frowned. "I don't know what I thought, actually. That they were guarding the cells, maybe?"

"As always, I despair of your ability to observe."

"Shut it." They turned down another empty hallway - was this place massively understaffed or something? - and John thought about the implications of the guards Sherlock had knocked out. "But I'm not that close to heat fever yet. Am I?"

"You're close enough that your hormones would take over if you had intimate contact with an alpha," Sherlock said. "It's also likely that they have clients who enjoy it when their omegas try to fight."

John made a face. "That's vile. How c-"

Sherlock held up a hand and John fell immediately silent, stopping next to Sherlock and trying not to breathe too loudly. After a moment, he heard what Sherlock had: footsteps. Lots of footsteps.

"They're heading to the containment cells," Sherlock said. He burst into motion, lengthening his stride until John fairly had to trot to keep up. 

"Slow down!" he called, trying to keep his voice down.

"They'll be able to follow your scent if they get close enough to catch it," Sherlock told him, not slowing, because he was a tit and they were apparently in a hurry. "We need to stay far enough ahead of them to prevent that eventuality."

"That's all well and good," John panted, more from the heat choking his chest than from their pace. "But they'll be able to _hear_ me running just as easily if you and your big brain don't remember that my legs are shorter than yours."

"That's hardly my fault, J-"

They rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a very surprised looking alpha.

One who wasn't, John noticed, wearing a mask. How convenient.

He didn't give the man a chance to yell. He threw a deliberately off-centre punch and flinched hard when the man moved automatically to strike back.

"Please!" John whimpered, hugging his arms in and exposing the arch of his neck. "Please don't hurt me!"

The man faltered, torn between his protective urges and the input of his thinking brain, and John fisted one hand in his collar and yanked him off balance so that he could get an arm around his neck in a quick and dirty chokehold.

That increasingly insistent part of John immediately flared up into 'oh Christ, yes' when his skin came into contact with the alpha's, but the rest of him ignored it in favour of applying just the right amount of pressure to knock the man out without killing him or causing brain damage.

Sherlock was watching him when John straightened from propping the man up against the wall. The gleam in his eye was decidedly speculative.

So John grinned at him, well aware that the expression was more than a little wild. "There's something to be said for being underestimated. Coming?"

The rest of their journey out of the building went surprisingly according to plan, helped in large part by Lestrade and his team bursting in while Sherlock and John were not-quite-silently debating the varying merits of making John bait - again - to get them past the security guard at the door Sherlock had used to get in.

The police went to work arresting everyone in sight and John found himself shuttled safely outside and wrapped in one of those ridiculous blankets that the EMTs kept insisting they needed. The adrenaline had all but worn off, which was making John very aware of the fact that he was exhausted, hungry and incredibly randy. The blanket was suddenly useful for hiding his persistent erection, although it did John's skyrocketing body temperature absolutely no favours. At this point, John felt overheated enough that he wouldn't have been surprised if the bloody thing caught fire.

Sherlock had vanished somewhere - probably off telling the police how bad they were at their jobs - so John sat himself down as far away from everyone else as he could possibly get without being reckless about it and tried not to think too much about anything. The police kept throwing glances his way, but John was more than willing to break the nose of the first person who dared to touch him, police officers included, and he suspected that something in his expression gave that away because no one dared to approach him.

After what felt like hours, Sherlock came bounding back out of the building, talking mile a minute, as usual. Blanket gathered up around him - out of a sense of propriety, not embarrassment - John picked himself up and headed over, wincing at the wet pull of his trousers against tacky skin.

"-simply a matter of overriding the maintenance lock," Sherlock was saying to Lestrade as John drew up, animated and fiercely exultant as he only ever was after they'd won. He paid no attention to John, even though Lestrade's dark-eyed gaze snapped towards him immediately.

"Sherlock," John said.

"Not now, John, I need to tell Lestrade-"

"You shouldn't be here," Lestrade said, which, for once, John couldn't really argue with. Lestrade's hands reached out, seemingly of their volition, but stopped a good few inches above John's arm. "Christ, John, you're barely holding it together. I knew I shouldn't have let you do this."

John's lips thinned. "It's not a question of 'letting' me do anything, Greg. I'll agree that I've had better days, though." He glanced at Sherlock, who was looking disgruntled at no longer having anyone to revel in his brilliance but himself. "I need to go home."

"Now?" Sherlock demanded, almost a whine. "We're not done, John."

"I am," John said, in a tone that even someone as socially suicidal as Sherlock would think twice about contradicting. John carried on before Sherlock had a chance to do so, anyway, "I'll see you back at Baker Street. Pick yourself up something to eat on your way home; the case is done, so now you need food."

Lestrade's expression went horrified. "You're not taking a taxi like that!" 

John leveled him with an even stare, which he considered quite the feat considering how twitchy he was inside his own skin. "It's either that or the tube. Can't imagine that going well, personally."

"I'll take you," Lestrade said, already reaching in his pocket for his keys.

A rumble of unhappiness came from Sherlock. "You can't leave," he said, sounding almost triumphant about it. "It's your crime scene."

"Then I'll get-"

"No," Sherlock said, definitely a growl this time. John's eyebrows shot right up to his hairline. 

"Sherlock!" Lestrade snapped, very close to growling, himself. "You can't just let John fend for hims-"

"I hardly need your advice for how to take care of him, Lestrade," Sherlock said, in the frostiest 'posh git' voice he had.

"No one needs to take care of me," John said, but neither of them were listening.

"That man has been through a hellish ordeal, even without taking his heat into account," Lestrade hissed, and John was at least glad for his attempts at keeping his voice down. "The least you can do is let someone else show some bloody consideration if you're not going t-"

"I'd be offended by the fact that you clearly don't listen when I speak, except I believe that it's a mental deficiency that prevents you from breathing and absorbing information at the same time. I am perfectly capable of-"

John watched them bicker for several moments further, then shrugged to himself and turned to walk out towards the street. Neither of them gave any indication that they noticed and John sighed a little to himself. Alphas.

It wasn't quite a surprise to see Mycroft waiting for him at the curb, standing beside one of his fleet of black cars. 

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft said smoothly. "Might I offer you a ride back to Baker Street?"

"Ta," John said, for once not interested in looking a gift horse in the mouth. His head was stuffed with cotton, his skin was three sizes too small and he just wanted to get home. "That'd be lovely."

Sherlock and Lestrade's argument clattered off into belated silence behind him and John was woefully unsurprised when Sherlock appeared between him and Mycroft, scowling hard enough that John was tempted to tell him that it was going to stick like that if he wasn't careful.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, like it was the most offensive word in the English language.

John rolled his eyes. "Leave it off, Sherlock. Just this once. I'll be fine. Better Mycroft than a random cabbie, hey?"

On cue, Mycroft pulled the door open for him, which John thought was laying it on a bit thick, but he really couldn't bring himself to care about the Holmes brothers and their endless game of one-upmanship. 

"If _anything_ happens to him-" Sherlock warned his brother, looking a little wild-eyed. It was becoming increasingly clear that not even the great Sherlock Holmes was entirely immune to eau du John, after all.

"He will be safe with me," Mycroft said, without a hint of the indulgent smugness that was his default setting. 

"If you two have _quite_ finished," John said, with a growl of his own. "Because I will bloody well commandeer your car and drive myself home if you make me stand around much longer, Mycroft."

Mycroft smiled thinly. "Of course. Enjoy your crime scene, Sherlock," he said, somehow managing to sound entirely dignified the entire time. He circled around to the other side of the car and slid inside.

Sherlock lingered on the sidewalk for a moment, looking surprisingly bereft.

"Go help Lestrade," John said, because stranger things had happened today than Sherlock following orders. "I'm fine. I'll see you later."

Not waiting for a response, John climbed in and leaned back against the door with a shaky sigh.

"To Baker Street?" Mycroft inquired, as the car pulled into traffic. He, unlike Sherlock, apparently saw some merit in asking questions he already knew the answer to.

"Please," John said, and neither of them said another word for the rest of the trip.

\---

John didn't really remember the drive back to Baker Street. He definitely didn't remember getting from the car to his bedroom and, when his head cleared, he would hope that Mycroft hadn't had to help him into the building. At this moment, however, John honestly couldn't have cared less. There was no space in his head for anything but the heat.

It was habit and ingrained caution that reminded John to lock the door behind him, a momentary hiccup in his determined march to the bed. He shed his clothes piecemeal along the way and John sighed in relief when he was stripped down to nothing but skin.

He'd had the sense to put down some plastic sheeting before he'd left and it crinkled when he settled down; John possessed enough of himself to be thankful for his own foresight. There wasn't a chance in hell that he'd have had the patience for something like that now.

It was the work of moments to open Mycroft's box and lay hands on the dildo John wanted: it was big, bigger than John's own prick and he wasn't exactly a lightweight, but John couldn't think much past the need to fill himself as completely as was possible without a bedmate. 

Which wasn't nearly full enough, but John was just going to have to deal with that.

John didn't know how much time passed in the haze of frustrated arousal, but he came to sudden, immediate alert at a sharp rap on the door. The warmth of Sherlock's scent assailed his nose and John was standing in front of the door before he'd even realized that he'd abandoned his unsatisfying plastic prick amid the rumpled sheets.

 _Alpha_ , his omega brain said. _Sherlock-mate-alpha-mine-mine-MINE_.

John tried to ignore it; he was barely clinging onto the tatters of his self-control as it was. 

There was a knock.

"Sherlock?"

"John," Sherlock answered. His voice sounded thin at the edges, but otherwise steady. "I've brought you some food. My research indicates that you won't have much interest in it once your heat hits in earnest-" 

_Bit late for that_ , John thought. 

"-and you need the energy. I'll leave it here."

Paper rustled and John reached for the lock without even thinking about it. Sherlock was _leaving_.

"Wait, " John started, as he swung the door open. "You don't need t-" 

Sherlock's entire body stiffened and his eyes went dark with a manic sort of lust. He looked John up and down, slowly, and how had John forgotten that he was naked, erect and glistening with his own slick? 

John's cheeks coloured; it wasn't from shame.

"John," Sherlock said, this time with a hunger that said it was going to swallow John whole and never let him come back out. John's entire body thought that sounded bloody marvelous.

A hand shot out and clamped vice-like around the back of John's neck, holding him in place. John whimpered.

"Sherlock," he managed, utterly breathless, and then Sherlock crushed their mouths together and stole what little coherency John still possessed right out of his head.

A guttural groan echoed up from John's chest, and it was the kind of sound that he knew distantly that he ought to be embarrassed by. Instead, John threw an arm around Sherlock's neck and pulled him in closer, hanging on for the ride.

"John," Sherlock growled, between deep, drugging kisses. "John, John, John…"

One of Sherlock's hands trailed down John's spine to dip into the cleft of his buttocks and John broke their kiss with a gasp, nerves zinging and brain not quite able to process the sensation of having someone else's hand down there.

"Sherl-" John said, but the rest died in his throat as Sherlock pulled back enough to look at him. 

Sherlock looked _wrecked_ : lusty, disheveled and swollen mouthed. His eyes were blown wide with arousal, barely a hint of icy blue around the edges of his pupils. He stared at John with heady desperation and… nothing else. There was nothing of Sherlock in that gaze. No hint of that bright, fiery mind that Sherlock prized so highly and that John couldn't get enough of. This was Sherlock at his most primal, stripped of everything that made him so wonderfully him.

John knew that he wasn't much better; even now, it was like wading upstream trying to focus on anything but how much he wanted Sherlock to bugger him to within an inch of his life. His whole body was trembling, yearning for Sherlock's touch in a way that had nothing to do with the man himself and everything to do with the fact that Sherlock was an alpha and John was an omega. 

This was the worst sort of mistake.

In one swift move, John pushed Sherlock back with enough force to send him stumbling back into the hallway and slammed the door in his face. He threw the lock closed with fingers that shook violently.

"John!" Sherlock snarled, voice clogged with lust and anger. One of his hands pounded on the door, hard and heavy, and John jumped. "Let me in!"

"Go outside and clear your head!" John shouted back, sliding down to sit on the floor with his back against the door. A chaotic mix of lust and terror was making him dizzy. He shoved his hands under his thighs to resist the impulse to open the door again. "That big brain of yours needs rebooting!"

Sherlock growled something that might have been John's name. The door shuddered again with the force of Sherlock's pounding fist and John forced himself to crawl away, to put some distance between them. Thankfully, Sherlock was quick to return to his senses; the banging only went on for a handful of moments before falling abruptly silent. 

John held his breath.

"John, I-" Sherlock started, but said nothing more. 

John stayed quiet.

Silence reigned for a small eternity.

John heard footsteps on the stairs.

It took John two hours to get up the nerve to open the door to retrieve the food that Sherlock had brought him.

\---

The next three days were absolutely _miserable_.

After their near miss in the hallway, Sherlock steered well clear of John for the duration of his heat. The flat seemed quiet enough most of the time that John thought that Sherlock might have been spending most of his time elsewhere to avoid temptation, although a brass band could have taken up residence in the sitting room and John wouldn't have noticed, so he couldn't really say. 

Time blurred. John was vaguely aware of his own guttural groans as he tried to satisfy the ache inside him, could feel the slippery glide of his fingers against his oversensitive skin, could see the mess he was making of his sheets. His throat grew hoarse and his breath came short and every muscle in his body felt drawn taut with need. There was nothing in his brain but static and the deep, primal need to have someone _claim_ him: lay stake, conquer, mark him irreparably as their property. Need burned like fire in his veins and it was hateful.

John spent 90% of his time in his bed and the other 10% in the bathroom, taking the absolute minimum of time to deal with his personal hygiene. 

He and Sherlock resorted to shouted conversations whenever John needed to go to the loo to keep from seeing each other, and Sherlock kept up a steady supply of water outside John's door.

It was, John couldn't help but think, very sweet, in a Sherlock sort of way.

When John finally came out the other side, twelve days after his heat had started, his room smelled like he'd just hosted a weeklong orgy, John felt like he'd gone three rounds with a tank and he was incredibly dehydrated. No surprise there.

He dragged himself upright and limped to the bathroom, discovering along the way that essentially every muscle he owned hurt. John reveled in a long, hot shower, sluicing away the worst of the evidence. His arse and prick _ached_ , but a quick examination showed that, despite the discomfort, he hadn't done himself any lasting damage. John didn't even bother with the rest of his standard morning routine; his hair was mostly flat from the shower and his beard grew in slowly enough that not shaving for a few days didn't make him look like he had either mange or a desire to become a lumberjack, which John figured was good enough.

The thought of clothing was almost physically painful, so John wrapped himself up in his dressing gown and made his way, gingerly, down the stairs.

Sherlock was in the sitting room, dressed in his pajamas and wearing an unfathomable expression. 

John paused at the bottom of the stairs, awkward in a way that he didn't think he'd ever been with Sherlock. "Uh, good morning."

"You need fluids," Sherlock said, and then, because he had very strange ideas about how conversations worked, continued with, "I would apologize for my behaviour the other day, however we are both aware that it was entirely hormonal in nature and, as such, I am not culpable for-"

"Thank you," John said, cutting Sherlock off before he could get too Mycroftian about it. "For all the water."

Sherlock sniffed. "Hardly worth mentioning. It was… good, what you did," he added, strangely quiet. "Stopping me."

"Stopping us," John corrected. He chanced a crooked smile. "Next time, let's make dicey decisions on our own terms, hey?"

A slow, careful sort of smile twitched Sherlock's lips. "Next time, I have every intention of shipping you to Dover, even if it was Mycroft's idea."

John momentarily wished for a pillow to throw at him. "Not what I meant and you know it. Prat."

A tap on the door interrupted them and Mrs. Hudson popped her head in.

"Cooee, darlings," she smiled. "Just popping in to check that everything is okay. Oh, John, dear, you look about done in. Sit down, no wait, hang on a tick, I'll get you a cushion."

"Get John some tea, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock ordered in the Voice, while Mrs. Hudson bustled about. John shot him a dirty look. "John needs fluids."

"Not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson said placidly. She settled a pillow on the seat of John's chair. "Try that, dear. Always such a nuisance to get around for the first few days, isn't it?"

John settled himself carefully on the cushion, biting back the pained hiss that wanted to escape even with the extra padding.

Sherlock's jaw firmed. "Mrs. Hudson. Tea."

"Oh, alright," Mrs. Hudson said and, to John's complete surprise, winked at him when Sherlock wasn't looking. "Just this once, though."

Sherlock nodded. He stood without warning, and vanished off towards his bedroom, dressing gown flaring behind him.

Mrs. Hudson shot John a little smile. "He means well, the dear boy."

"Yes," John agreed absently. He watched Mrs. Hudson navigate their disaster area of a kitchen for a while before giving voice to a question that he'd had several times before but never dared to ask. "You never actually do things just because he tells you to, do you?" he asked. "Even when he use the alpha voice."

"I do sometimes," she said, walking into the sitting room with a mug of tea in hand. "He's got quite a presence, Sherlock does. But certainly not always. You know how alphas are, though. Never would occur to them that we often choose to listen."

"So why pretend that all they need to do is talk that way to get what they want?" John asked, accepting the mug.

"It's important to choose your battles, dear." Mrs. Hudson patted him on the knee and offered him an uncharacteristically impish grin. "And you never know when you might need the element of surprise."

"Huh. Thanks, Mrs. Hudson." He smiled at her. "For the tea, as well."

"It's my pleasure, John dear. Now you and Sherlock make sure you both get plenty of rest, you hear me? Sherlock's been up all hours guarding the door and we both know he needs far more sleep than he wishes he did."

"He has?" John glanced towards the hallway that led to Sherlock's room. "I thought he might have gone away for a few days. To avoid the… pheromones."

"With you in heat fever? Goodness, no. Didn't so much as come downstairs to fetch the post."

"He never does that," John pointed out.

"Oh, that's hardly the point. Protecting you, he was. Turned away a few interlopers as well, I'll have you know." She sighed a little. "Would be nice if he could have done it without putting more holes in my walls, mind, but-"

"Really?" John sat back in his chair, a little stunned. "He didn't tell me."

"Ah, well, he wouldn't, would he?" Mrs. Hudson said, wearing the indulgent look that talk about Sherlock's idiosyncrasies always garnered. "Likes to think he's above emotion. Not that he's fooling us."

"Mm," John agreed, a little distantly. His sore body was starting to remind him that he hadn't got much sleep for the better part of a week and his brain felt heavy, tired.

Mrs. Hudson tutted. "Look at me, nattering away while you're on your last legs. Off to bed with you, young man."

John summoned up a laugh. "Hardly that young anymore, Mrs. Hudson. But I won't deny that a bit of a kip sounds like a wonderful idea." He glanced towards Sherlock's closed bedroom door. "Seems like Sherlock might have beaten me to it, but I'll check him before I head up, just to make sure." 

Mrs. Hudson nodded approvingly. "You're always so good to him, John." She stood, brushing the wrinkles out of her skirt. "Sherlock's lucky to have an omega like you."

"We're not-" John started, only to fall silent when Mrs. Hudson turned a gentle, knowing expression his way.

"Does it really matter? I'll be right downstairs if you need me," she said then, with her customary brightness. "You two take care of each other."

"We will," John said automatically. He stayed sitting as Mrs. Hudson let herself out, thinking about what she'd said.

It was true, he was somewhat surprised to realize. John did have an alpha. Granted, it wasn't one he was sure he wanted, even on a good day, and Sherlock didn't seem to have any interest in any kind of relationship when he wasn't high on John's pheromones, but the fact that they lived together and spent a vaguely disconcerting amount of their time together had attuned John to Sherlock. He'd liked the man's scent from the first and there was no getting away from the fact that Sherlock was a large part of the reason why the flat felt like home.

The startling part was that John didn't really mind. There was something bizarrely comforting in the almost possessive curl of Sherlock's scent, Sherlock's backhanded appreciation of John's presence and abilities, the way John could always count on Sherlock to be the brilliant, wonderfully mad catalyst to his life. 

They were going to be something, the two of them. John didn't know quite what yet, but he knew that they'd get there together, on their own terms, biology be damned. Alpha and omega was definitely a part of what they were, but not nearly the most of it. They balanced each other, John supposed was the heart of it, in a way that wouldn't have worked if he'd been a hot headed alpha as well.

And maybe, John admitted in the privacy of his own head, just maybe it wasn't that terrible of a thing to be an omega after all. Not when he and Sherlock both knew that being an omega didn't make John weak or helpless. John couldn't say that he was looking forward to his next estrus cycle, but he'd handle that when he came to it. What mattered right now was that he'd survived this one without any adverse effects and he could do it again. John was strong enough to be an omega.

Of course, now John had his first ever menstrual cycle to look forward to. Which was just _delightful_.

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to [staysthecourse](http://staysthecourse.livejournal.com) for choosing my story and creating some lovely art! This story didn't leave her with a lot of opportunity for arting, sadly, but she rose up to the challenge like a champ and has created several pieces that really suit the tone and foci of the story. Thanks, [staysthecourse](http://staysthecourse.livejournal.com)! I like to think that our respective crazies matched up well, my dear; it's been a pleasure! Everyone should check out her [Art Post](http://staysthecourse.livejournal.com/7703.html) for the art included here as well as an extra goodie!
> 
> Thanks also and always to [oddishly](http://oddishly.livejournal.com) for the beta and Britpick! You've always got my back when it comes to beta reading and I know that everyone appreciates you correcting my unintentional Canadianisms (sofas - who knew?) You're a star!


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